Fire Emblem: The Great Crusade
by The Erudite
Summary: All things have a beginning and an end. Chrom and Robin's stories ended with the defeat of Gangrel and Grima, but how did those stories begin? A glance into the life of Chrom's father and the war that led to Plegia's hatred for the Halidom of Ylisse, the war that precipitated it all. Rated T for blood/violence, mild language, and mild suggestive themes.
1. Chapter I

Chapter I

Ours is the Blood of Naga. Of the old and everlasting covenant between man and dragon.

Within our Blood lies the power of life. Of being. Of hope. It is the Blood of the Lifegiver, the spirit of good within all men.

The Blood is our most sacred gift; to waste the Blood is to spit upon the face of the powers that granted life unto us all. To spill the Blood is heresy.

The gift granted unto us by Naga shall not be wasted; we swear to protect the Blood, to protect our House, just as Naga swears to protect us through our Blood. Such is our duty.

By my hand I shall protect my House, I will save my Blood, and I will continue to allow the Blood to flow across eons. I will raise my hands only to those who threaten my Blood, my most sacred treasure. I am a vessel of Naga, and I will do Her will. This is evidenced by the glow of my blade, which will sharpen to spill the blood of my foes.

These are my solemn vows, the auspices of the gift that is my Blood, the Blood of the Exalted, in Naga's name. Amen.

The man stood, his sapphire hair swaying back delicately as he rose to meet the eyes of the bishop before him, followed by those of his father and his mother. "So then," his father spoke, "it is done." His mother smiled faintly but warmly, astride her husband. They were a perfect set, those two; they looked incomplete without the other, but his father had aged more quickly, as perhaps is typical. Now his mother looked more like a shimmering idol next to the fading light of a rugged old sovereign.

"Your new armor makes you look very handsome, dear," his mother cooed politely, supporting herself on his father's shoulder.

He smiled contentedly and nodded, pleased, at least, that his mother derived some enjoyment from this affair, "Thank you."

"The people... they will be expecting great things of you, my son," his father cleared his throat.

"You think I'm not aware?" he replied with a sarcastic shrug, "I've only heard this lecture a hundred times."

His father's lower lip stiffened, "You would be wise to dispense with that tone before your first day at court."

The young man recognized the gesture, "Yes, father."

"I suppose, seeing as how you look presentable enough, you should follow me now. Best not to keep the council waiting," his father continued.

"Of course," he acceded, bowing in deference.

His mother reluctantly released her husband, "Do go easy on the boy. It's his first day." She fed her son a coy smile.

"Come, Argos," his father commanded, not looking in his direction, but rather already climbing the stairs. The young man followed hastily behind him. "And Dana?" the young man's father caught his wife's attention, "Have the servants start dinner; this won't take long."

"Of course, Silas," she obeyed, "though I wish you wouldn't call them 'servants...'"

This final remark went unheard as the pair ascended the remaining stairs together. Argos looked over to his father. The man was the picture of strength, the type whose image was cast in bronze to demonstrate the power of man, the type that was placed in parks and defecated upon by pigeons. All the same, there could be no doubting Silas's force; his musculature was still quite defined despite his advanced age, which showed in the slight hunch to his walk, "the natural consequence of carrying this nation on my back," he would joke. Like his son, the man retained a shortly cropped head of sapphire-blue hair, although it was becoming more silver by the day, such that it would be more periwinkle than sapphire in less than a year, perhaps. His face was stern, his cheeks rather gaunt and his brow heavy and worn, dark eyes beneath it. He was a man to be feared, but also respected. Silas was not without his joys; he was well liked by most of the people in his employ, but today, as he reminded his son, he had few reasons to express joy. Generally, Silas was clean-shaven, but the stubble stayed on his face today, a product of his lack of interest in addressing his entire facial cleanliness before meeting with the men who advised him.

Below his face, there were dark vestments. His undershirt was always black, but it was obscured by the steel gray of the breastplate that covered it, a necessity for royalty of his caliber. Trousers, too, were dark, but accented with silver striping to emphasize the entire regalia; Silas hated the style of these trousers. At his feet were a pair of simple, mud-brown leather boots. These boots were not particularly in line with Ylissean fashion traditions, but they were the one article of clothing upon whose presence Silas insisted. As the pair neared the door, Exalt Silas straightened the gold-tinged iron gauntlets and vambraces that adorned his arms and clasped his shirtsleeves to his arm.

The door was opened, and the exalt seated himself at the oaken table, joined shortly by his son. The advisors lowered their chatter to a whisper, then stopped altogether. "Well, gentlemen," Silas lowered his bare hand onto the table, "don't be silent on my account. Tell me what I need to know."

A particular advisor, robed in green and bearing a bald head and an aquiline nose, stood to answer, "First, this council would like to extend its warm welcome to our guest, the future Exalt Argos."

All eyes turned to the blue-haired young man as hands rapped on the table rhythmically in joined celebration. The young was similar to his father in his stature, for the most part. He would never be taller or broader than his father, and he had smoother, softer features, as well as brighter eyes and a less sunk-in brow. He was also dressed much more plainly: indigo vestments held together with pearl or silver buttons, black trousers, and a pair of plain black shoes. His only decoration was the sapphire cape his mother had woven, proudly displaying the Mark of Naga on his back. With a bow of minor embarrassment, the prince accepted his initiation and waved the advisors to silence, "Thank you, good men, but let's not make this about me. I'm sure my father would be very happy to have this all sorted as soon as possible."

"Naturally," the same advisor before bowed in deference to the exalt, "Very well, then. We begin by noting that many farmers to the northwest still feel the devastation of this past winter, and are starving. There have been no riots yet, but local law enforcement sends word that they fear the populations grow restless and that upheaval is all but inevitable."

Silas nodded, "And what are our options?"

The advisor continued, "Well, food had been scarce as of late, as I'm sure you're aware, but it may be possible to encourage sale away from the southern markets and into the north, but that would likely prove a difficult venture and may even create similar resentment in the southern territories."

"A question with no right answer," Silas sighed in the direction of his son, "get used to that."

"What do you suppose we do, sire?" asked a different advisor.

Silas pinched his chin before answering, "The south can take the stress. See if you can divert some of the markets up north, and work their prices down a bit; offer them some incentive. The southerners may become irritated, but we can't risk full rebellions. While we're at it, maybe Regna Ferox can offer more to the north, being acclimated to those conditions as they are."

"Those barbarians don't know the first thing about trade," scoffed another advisor.

"Careful," Silas touted, "We have only a few neighbors on this little continent of ours. I should think it wise to anger as few of them as possible."

"On that note," piped up a fourth advisor, "There is also the issue of religious fanaticism rising in Plegia."

Silas raised an eyebrow, "Do continue."

The man complied, "Plegia has long been a region of slow growth due to its arid conditions, as I'm sure milord is aware, but they have been experiencing something of a renaissance of late. Our successful trade relationship has empowered the Plegians as never before, and they have begun to construct a palace for their sovereign. Even more recently, however, more and more Plegians speak of the power that compels them through their labor; they speak of a savior in what they call the 'Fell Dragon.' I can find no historical parallel to this particular idol."

"And why is this significant?" demanded Silas.

"Increasingly," the advisor responded, "The Plegians have come to worship this dragon with exceptional fervor, with high 'Grimleal' authorities, as they are called, ascertaining a number of politically influential positions. Most significant in this matter, however, is that the Grimleal view the followers of Naga as infidels; the destroyers of their savior. Suffice it to say that Ylisse-Plegia relations will have many a landmine to circumvent in order to function."

Silas nodded, "I suppose there is little we can do to alter belief. I appreciate the information. Monitor the situation as best you can and let me know if any significant developments occur."

"Yes, of course, milord," assented the advisor.

"Is there anything else that needs be brought to my attention?" Exalt Silas asked the table before him. The advisors responded with a respectful silence.

"If I may," eyes jumped to Argos as he gestured with his hand, "might I request that a window be opened at the next of these meetings? It's hot as damnation up here."

Good-natured laughter poured out from the dignitaries as they began to rise along with their exalt, and who smiled momentarily but said nothing further. After the advisors cleared out, Silas made his way out of the chambers, followed by his son. "And how did you like being in your first Royal Congress?" Silas looked over his shoulder.

"Frankly, it was very dull," Argos replied with half-open eyes."

His father nodded, "Indeed, they're not thrilling, but they are of the utmost importance; conversing effectively with the representatives of your citizenry will be the key to ruling this halidom, do you understand?"

"Yes, father," his son nodded, following him down the stairs.

Here, Argos and Silas parted, as the son was abruptly called away by his mother. Silas excused him, and the young man hurried into the kitchen to find his mother smiling, observing the cooks as they worked.

Dana, the exalt's wife, was as much a symbol as her husband, though she was a symbol of beauty, of culture and refinement; while Silas had bent, wearied, and grayed with age, Dana's hair remained robustly coffee-brown and shimmered on sunny days, complimenting her comforting hazel eyes and small pink lips. She was perfect woman, at least from the artistic depictions of adoring Ylisseans. They constantly came to her side to experience a polite wave of her delicate arms, always bearing a bracelet or bangle of some sort. She very much had a predilection for jewelry, including anklets and a stunning necklace bearing a new gemstone every day; it was an exasperating penchant for her husband to support, but, fortunately, he was avowed of the combine wealth of an entire nation to sate her needs. At present, she wore an elegant, if vaguely translucent, mint-green dress and had her hair tied in a simple topknot. Her thin fingers interwove as she greeted her son, "Hello darling."

He couldn't help but smile, "Hello mother."

"Oh, my boy is growing up... soon he'll be the exalt, and I'll just be another handmaiden in the crowd," she sighed, not without a glow of contentment.

Argos seized his mother's hands, "Do you honestly suppose anyone should ever mistake you for a handmaiden?" She laughed and thanked him. "Besides," he continued, "I can only become exalt once I've married, and I suspect that won't be for a while."

"It wouldn't be quite so long if you'd actually speak to some of the girls at court, rather than gallivanting around, riding horses, practicing archery, and fencing," she returned with a tap of her foot.

"Mother," he sighed with an air of refutation, "I'll get there, I'm just not ready, that's all. Just enjoy being queen a bit longer." She mewled a brief accedence. "Now," her son perked up, "What did you need of me?"

"Oh," she was brought back to the thought at once, "We need a few vegetables to complete tonight's meal. Be a dear and go get them from the market, hm?"

She handed the blue-haired young man a list and he took it, "See? You won't be able to order me to do chores when I'm exalt."

"Until then," she smirked sidelong at him, giving him a slight push, "maybe use that as motivation to hurry along."

He chuckled in reply and pecked his mother on the cheek before heading out.

The market square was still very lively at this time of day, but Argos was pleased to note he had arrived at just the right time; walls were turning scarlet and auburn as the sun slowly bid its farewell to the lingering silver clouds. He would have no difficulty finding what he needed. Argos had loved mingling with the common folk in the marketplace ever since he was a child and remembered fondly the smells of spices from around the globe situated alongside cooked and seasoned meats set out either for consumption or display, and the gleeful smiles of salesmen and women, although those smiles may have been brighter exclusively for the fact the his presence meant royal coin was about to be spent.

He sidled up to one vendor's tent where a striped awning protected customers from the waning sun (for despite the cooling that came with evening, the entire day had been hellishly hot). Almost immediately, the merchant appeared from within the stall, "Howdy, handsome! What can I getcha?"

Argos glanced down at the list a moment, then shrugged and placed it on the counter, "As much of what's on this list as you have in stock."

"Easy enough," smiled the redhead across from him, "I'll be right back; won't take but a minute, okay?" Argos nodded and turned his head while the merchant retreated into her stall. He watched with only mild interest as some children played, refusing to give up their game until they were tugged away by the collar by their parents. Dogs and cats roamed the emptying streets, picking up scraps left sfter the days' events, and merchants with faces burnt red by the sun began to take down their signs and put away their inventory.

At once, however, a small band of young men, four or five, each wearing either a bandana and some torn street clothes or the dirty vestments of a disinterested nobleman, or some combination thereof, began to march toward the prince's position. Argos peered over the counter to see if the merchant was returning, but had no such luck as the other men drew near.

"And look what we have here," one at the front smile wolfishly. He wore the most noble-looking clothes of the group, "A royal whelp who doesn't know better than to stay out after dark."

"These streets get downright treacherous at night, even in the capital," another added, brandishing a knife.

"Whatever it is you want, you won't get it from me," the prince planted one heel into the pavement.

A few mocking "Oohs" came from the other rogues, who were now encircling the prince, withdrawing swords or knives. "Easy, tough guy," jeered the nobly-dressed rogue, "There's no knights to protect you out here."

"I don't need knights to teach a reprobate like yourself a lesson," Argos cracked his knuckles, frowning sternly.

The merchant finally returned from within her stall and quickly understood the situation, "Hey, I dunno what's going on here, and, to be frank, I don't care, but you need to step away from my store. You wreck any of my inventory and I'll see to it you never see the sun again."

"No problem," the noble rogue accede affably, having two of his subordinates apprehend the prince and begin dragging him by the arms, "I just want to give Mister Junior Exalt here a little piece o' my mind."

"So," Argos grunted, struggling as he was being pulled away, "What's your grievance?"

"Grievance," the rogue scoffed, "what d'you think gives you the right to be all cheeky about it like that?"

"This happens more often than you might think," the prince finally shook himself free, "So, what is it? Your taxes too high? Food too expensive? Your daddy didn't get a job in the palace? I can't change any of that."

"You smug little bastard," the noble rogue threw a punch at his face.

Having little time to react, Argos took the blow on the nose, but smirked nonetheless, "It was one of those, wasn't it? Go cry to someone else."

With a fierce growl, the rogue pulled his knife and ordered his men to attack. Argos dodged one clumsy swipe with a sword and ended one knife onslaught with a well-aimed punch. Another attacker wrapped his arms around the prince's from behind and tried to restrain him. Ever resourceful, however, the blue-haired young man smashed the back of his skull into the opponent's face, breaking his nose and causing him to fall over. Another knife appeared and scratched the prince's arm, but he apprehended its deliverer's own arm and flung him to the ground. At last, however, the noble rogue charged forward and leapt in tandem with the prince, rendering his dodge useless. The rogue plunged his dagger just to the right of the prince's sternum, sliding it in roughly, diagonally between his ribs. Argos shouted, then struck back with a fierce punch while the blade was stuck within him. When his adversary made a grab for the dagger's hilt, the prince blocked the arm and seized his foe by the throat and began to squeeze.

"H-Hey, whoa..." the rogue sputtered, "we can talk this out... I... I just live somewhere destitute, and I was mad... Please, just lemme go and we'll all act like this never happened, huh?"

The prince concentrated on the pleading face, whose color was fading rapidly. He glanced down at his extended arm, and at the rip in his clothes, brimming with blood and revealing the mark of Naga on his chest. "And let you strike out against others who make you 'mad?'" growled Argos, "No... No, I don't think so." The noble rogue tried to muster a scream or cry for help, but his gurgles became less voluminous and intelligible as the pressure around his trachea grew until his limbs and neck became limp. With an extra showing of disgust, the prince let the rogue drop to the ground with a thud that echoed off the darkening city walls. Those among his compatriots who were still conscious picked up and ran.

His fight thus ended, Argos kicked the ground idly and murmured a chuckle to himself, then clutched his chest, suddenly reminded of the pain, and toppled to his knees like a sackful of potatoes.

[...]

The prince awoke to the sensation of a cool rag being pressed against his forehead. He groaned at the burning sensation in his chest and tried to reach for it before his arms were held down. "No, no," tutted an unfamiliar voice. He squinted and saw a woman glaring down at him disapprovingly. "Glad to see you finally awake, child," the woman said in a tone that didn't match her statement, "I was powerful scared you'd kicked the bucket."

"Uh, right," the blue-haired lord groaned, "My thanks. Er, but why did you save me?"

"Weren't me that saved you, child," the woman continued, "T'were Larissa, over there." The woman pointed a bony finger at a girl in the corner of the room. Said girl was the absolute picture of elegance: she had flowing bleach-blonde hair, soft, supple skin that made her complexion peachy and warm, a pair of teary blue eyes, and a set of small lips that quivered a little as the prince looked her over, but that, he imagined, would look perfectly gorgeous were she smiling. She was also wearing a pure white habit, the uniform of Ylissean female clergy; she was a nun.

"I was getting a honeydew for Sister Marla when I heard all that shouting and hitting," Larissa watched him carefully, "I ran over and found you bleeding, and, well, I wasn't exactly sure what to do, but I knew I couldn't just leave you, so I patched you up as best I could and brought you back here to Sister Marla."

"And a good job you did, my girl," Sister Marla praised. She was a pudgy woman, now that Argos got a better look at her; not fat, but she had clearly earned some perks from her position in the clergy, and she took advantage of them. She was a healthy eater, for certain. After this praise, however, the older nun was struck silent as she spotted the Mark of Naga on Argos's chest. She gasped, "Oh, you're one of the royals, aren't you? But you're just a little thing... you must be the prince, right?" The lord nodded slowly. Sister Marla clapped her hands together, "Heavens to Betsy, we need to go find your mom and pop! Larissa, take care of this child, I got to go talk to some folk!"

"Yes, Sister Marla," the girl obeyed. She approached the bed cautiously, "I hope I didn't cause you any other harm."

"No, not at all," he breathed, "I'm fine." Then, after a pause, "You should see the other guy."

"I did," she said with slight distaste, "I had hoped to never see something like that, living in the capital."

"What, death?" Argos raised an eyebrow, "That's just foolish; death is a part of life. You don't live without seeing yourself outlive others."

"I'm not interested in you morbid philosophy," she turned, then let her voice become soft again, "I was hoping life here would be nice and quiet, if nothing else. That's what mama said..."

"So, your parents sent you here?" the prince gleaned.

"Yes," she faced him again, "What of it?"

"Nothing..." he sighed, "I just... bet you haven't seen much outside of this convent, huh?"

"I hardly think I need to," she folded her hands together uneasily.

"Oh, c'mon," the blue-haired young man began to smile, "I can show you around sometime, it'll be fun. At worst, you can have lunch on me."

She shook her head, "Sir, I'm a nun, I can't just go consorting with men whenever I please."

"Well, what about princes?" he supposed.

"I hardly think that changes anything," she rebutted.

"I won't tell anyone if you don't," he pressed.

"Oh..." she threw up her hands, "Perhaps. Does that satisfy you? Perhaps."

"Good enough," the prince folded his arms behind his head triumphantly, then winced at the pain in his chest, "Oh, and, uh, thanks... you know, for saving my life... Larissa, was it?"

She nodded, "I couldn't very well leave you to die. And what is your name?"

"I'm the prince," he grinned in mock indignity, "you don't know it?"

"I stay in here all day and mend cuts, I don't gossip like the schoolgirls or follow politics like the retired old men," was Larissa's retort.

"Argos," the prince provided.

[AN: So, yeah, this is a little bit of an experimental thing, so I need your feedback! Did you like this? Or is it a bad idea? Would you read more of it? Are there characters your particularly like or dislike? Let me know; I want to hear your criticism. Tell me the good and the bad, as well as if you think this story is worth continuing, and we'll see where it goes, okay? Thanks very much!]


	2. Chapter II

Chapter II

The sapphire-haired lad bowed his head as his parents slipped through the door, his mother's eyes glittering. "Oh, darling!" she ran up and embraced her son on the bed, "I'm so sorry for making you run such a treacherous errand! It's all my fault! Can you ever forgive me?"

The young man blushed and rubbed his neck, cocking an eyebrow at his sobbing mother, "Of course, mother. I'm fine." Ignoring his response, she clung to him and wept. Argos shrugged and looked to his father, who was returning his gaze.

"So, you're unharmed?" the exalt asked.

His son nodded, "Mostly. I took one good hit to the gut, but that's the worst of it. I'll be fine."

His father accepted the self-diagnosis silently, then glanced to the corner of the room where he found a blonde cleric who was struck rigid, as if holding in her breath. "Were you acting as his nurse, then?"

The cleric's eyes went wide as she heard herself being addressed, "Oh! Uh, no, not really... that is, I was... I mean, I found... Um..."

"It's not an inquisition, girl," Silas's brow slanted up, "I'm just wondering who to thank."

She blushed, "Uh, well... I guess... I did find him and bring him back, so... uh..."

"What's your name?" continued the exalt.

"Larissa," she answered, swallowing.

Silas's eyes shut before he opened into a small smile, "Thank you for taking care of my son, Larissa."

Larissa bowed obediently, "Of course, sir exalt, er, your majesty."

The exalt faced his family again, his wife still bawling in her son's lap, "Dana, that will be quite enough of that. Let's get the boy a fresh set of bandages and we'll be on our way."

Dana did her best to wipe away her tears, but she was still sniffling, "Y-Yes dear. As you say." The royal family waited a few minutes more for Sister Marla to return and apply a fresh set of bandages to the prince's exposed chest, as well as a final brief healing with her staff to speed up the recovery. Following the nun's departure, Argos clothed himself again, and as his parents turned to leave, he extended a smile to Larissa, still waiting quietly in the corner. She returned it out of politeness, but sighed with tremendous relief as the door finally shut behind the blue-haired lord.

"You must be more careful," Silas told his son, who was following quickly behind him, "You will always be hated for your nobility. The deprived despise the gifted, such is nature."

"Not like it was anything to worry about," Argos scoffed, "I licked those blackguards in no time flat."

"Indeed," Silas nodded, "but not all your detractors will be so poorly equipped."

"Well, let them come. I'll always have my sword at the ready," his son answered to no one in particular.

"Honestly, must you always talk of fighting?" Dana rolled her eyes, "There remains a meal waiting for us at our home that I worked very hard on, and I should like very much to taste it before morning." The sapphire-haired men exchanged glances, shrugged, and picked up their pace toward the palace.

[...]

Dinner passed pleasantly for the young scion, as he thoroughly enjoyed the meal he was presented. He licked his lips, still tasting the warm beef broth on them and settled contentedly into bed, distracted only momentarily from his comfort by the nagging pain in his abdomen. As he lay down, Argos pulled up his pajamas and looked at the bandaged area once more, as if the mere act would make it heal faster. Resigning himself with a sigh, he lay back onto his pillow and stared up at the ceiling, as he did many nights to lull himself to sleep.

The exalt's son pondered the day, as he always did in the moments before his rest, more out of habit than desire. In particular, he reflected on Larissa, who was something of an abnormality to him. It wasn't as if he'd never been out of the palace, but usually when he met with women outside the palace, they were finely dressed or had something to share with the prince; it was interesting to meet one who had nothing to remark upon at his arrival.

He thought, too, of his assailants, and wondered after their motives. He had made a show of knowing what drove them, confident that it would agitate them enough to make them rash, but, in truth, Argos recognized that all the issues he had listed were very real for many of the commoners. That wasn't to say he knew the first thing about what to do with them, though. The royal belief was, commonly, that the underprivileged needed to accept some of their hardship as fate and strive to improve what they could in order to find happiness, as nobles far and wide agreed that their lives were far from charmed in the way the lower echelons of society seemed to believe. That rationale was accepted by Argos's father and, therefore, also by the prince himself, especially because he held a certain degree of distaste for those who would claim themselves helpless.

Argos yawned and stretched out his arms, then winced it pain when he felt a twinge near his stomach. He reached down to the wound and touched it tacitly, withdrawing his fingers at a wet sensation. When he lifted them to his face, a few drops of blood made them seem black rather than bluish gray in the darkened room. He gazed at this blood contemplatively before his thinking became hazy, and lowered his head back to the pillow.

And in the darkness of that encroaching night, the prince heard a voice, faint at first, but echoing and growing greater, and warm despite its distance. As the sound drew closer, the prince reopened his eyes. Instantly, he bit his lip and jumped back, startled by the presence.

A manakete stood opposite him, but not an ordinary manakete: this one cast a teal glow all around her form, and possessed flowing emerald hair and crystalline eyes. Argos swallowed: this was the way artists depicted Naga herself. "Be not afraid, Contractor," assuaged the vision.

"'Contractor?'" the prince repeatedly dumbly, staring back.

The manakete nodded, "You share my blood. You are among the Contractors."

Argos nodded, "R-Right... Why have you come before me?"

"I sense much distress ahead..." the manakete answered, "The Contractors... you are destined to tread a harrowed path... but it is necessary. You will find peace at its end."

"I don't understand," the young lord replied honestly.

The figure stared at him carefully, "Listen well to my words and forget them not. A great deal stands to occur in your future: one Mad King is felled to give rise to another, a church corrupts its congregation, and a child will be born, fated to save this world, an Awakener will come forth."

"But what do you ask of me?" Argos returned the look.

"You must know all these things are fated," Naga looked upon him gravely, "You mustn't attempt to change them; if you alter the course of history, it will result in your destruction. Think on what I have told you, and ensure that it transpires."

"I... very well," he responded simply, still stunned by the deity.

"You will serve your god well, Argos," the shimmering figure finally announced, albeit as flatly as the rest of her words. Before the prince could conjure a reply, the vision faded and, at once, all became black.

[...]

The girl clenched her fists tightly as she slowly traipsed up toward the door of the palace. She shivered slightly as she saw the guards turn their eyes down on her, the sun glinting off of their visors and directly into her eyes. They pointed their lances as she drew near. "State your business," ordered the one on her right.

"I-I have come t-to... to seek an audience with Prince Argos," she shuddered. She was regretting this decision already.

"And what is your name?" the same guard demanded.

"Larissa, sir," she managed, "I'm but a simple nun, a humble servant of Naga, but the prince knows me. I come here on an invitation."

"I'll be the judge of that," the guard replied, gesturing to his partner before stepping inside.

"Stay here," the guard on the left pointed his lance toward her. Larissa nodded and remained fixed in place.

Inside, once it was learned that Argos was still asleep, the guard climbed the steps and knocked gently on the door. When he received no response, he knocked more loudly. Argos, hearing the sound, jolted awake and nearly slipped out of his bed before catching himself on the side. He yawned loudly and answered the knock, "What is it?"

"Forgive me for disturbing you, milord," came the meek reply, "but a young lady called Larissa is calling for you at the gates."

"Larissa?" he repeated to himself, "I'll be damned. Tell her I'll be down in a moment when I'm properly dressed."

"Yes sir," the guard answered, traveling back down the stairs to relay the message. The prince shook himself awake, slapping the color into his cheeks and attempted to shape his hair by hand. A bit frustrated with his own lethargy, he threw off his pajamas and grabbed a pair of his nicer trousers (onyx-colored, to be worn to formal occasions) and one of his many blue shirts, always accented with a silver trim. Having dressed, the boy flew down the stairs until he was arrested by his parents, standing together near the door. "And where are you going?" his father demanded suspiciously.

"The nun that saved me, Larissa," the prince explained, "she's come to see me. I think I at least owe her a short audience if there's something she needs." This response seemed to please Silas, who simply nodded in silence.

"Dressed like that?" his mother added, "Not on my watch; you look a mess. Go run some water and a comb through your hair, and put on some proper shoes. And pick a different shirt, too."

"Mother," he rolled his eyes, "I just-"

"I don't want to hear it," she shook her head, "I won't have you reflecting poorly on our house. Get yourself dressed properly. We'll entertain your guest until then." The prince swallowed; he would have to hurry to make that conversation as brief as possible.

After a quick order, Larissa was allowed in, and both of the parents offered her a seat at a table in the next room, which she politely accepted. The exalt and his wife followed and took their seats as well, but only sat in silence for a few moments, as Silas looked at the girl, but said nothing. Dana picked up the slack, however, "So, how long have you been a cleric, dear?"

"Oh," her eyes widened, "Well, I've been in a clerical school since I was little, and I started working with the sisters when I turned ten, but I've only really been on the job for about a year now."

Dana nodded, "So, were your parents members of the clergy as well?"

"Yes, my mother was, ma'am. My father was a farmer, though I recall he used to speak of doing mercenary work in his younger days," Larissa answered.

"I see," the exalt's wife absorbed this information and sat back, folding her hands together and smiling pleasantly across the table.

Argos plodded heavily into the room and coughed to announce his presence, prompting a short sigh of relief from Larissa. "Do excuse me, milord and milady," begged the blonde cleric, "but I should like to speak to your son, if I may."

"Please, go on ahead," Dana waved them off. Her husband simply nodded in their direction. As the children stepped out, Silas received a chastising glare from his wife.

"So," Argos proclaimed in a touting fashion, to accentuate his regality, "What is it you called on me for?"

"Well," she scratched her head nervously, "Milord mentioned showing the capital to me... I was wondering if I might take milord up on his generous offer."

Argos's eyes widened in surprise, "You want me to show you around Ylisstol?"

Larissa looked away, "Well, I haven't been outside of the convent much... I thought, perhaps, well... who could turn down a royal invitation?"

The prince laughed and smiled, "Very well, then, I'd be happy to. Come with me, I'll show you all of my favorite spots around town. And stay close, if you're wise." She mouthed a protest, but followed and took his hand.

After explaining to the guards their business, the prince and his guest crossed the bridge that protected the palace, followed a few paces behind by a light escort. Argos headed first to a fountain a short walk from the bridge. It stood about ten feet tall and was hewn of a pale stone that gave it an otherworldly quality amid the butter-yellow and pale-bricked buildings of the capital, as well as its dusty streets. At the center of the fountain was a sculpted figure with long hair, his arm hefting up his sword, which served as the fountain's spout. "This statue," the prince began, sounding as much like a tour guide as he could, "has been in Ylisstol for as long as anyone can remember, and then some. It's a testament to the strength and enduring spirit of our nation. That's what the scholars say, at any rate. I enjoy the tranquility of the area; there always seems to be a strange power here that makes it easier for me to think clearly, so when I'm feeling troubled, I come here and watch the water flow for a while."

"Interesting," Larissa mused, wandering closer. She found an inscription at the fountain's base and read it aloud, "'Anri?'"

Argos nodded, "Scholars have supposed that might be a word in the language of ancient Ylisseans who built the statue, but we've never determined any type of etymological evidence that would help us understand its meaning. Until then, that inscription remains a mystery."

Larissa continued observing the statue until her hand was seized by her guide and she jumped, but he smiled back down at her. Only a little annoyed, she continued to follow him. They continued their walk to market square, only a short walk away, but the area itself seemed to stretch for miles. Larissa glanced up at her guide to see any apprehension on his face, but the young lord only smiled back down and continued on. After several long minutes spent walking, he stopped at a particular stand and called the clerk.

"My dear prince!" fawned a middle-aged woman inside, "What can I get for you?"

"How 'bout a nice lilac, for the lady?" Argos gestured to his companion.

"Absolutely!" the merchant clapped her hands and went digging in her inventory. After a moment, she returned with one purple and one white bloom, sticking the purple behind Larissa's ear and presenting the white to the prince, "That one's on the house for being my best customer."

Larissa looked skeptically toward him, "'Best customer,' huh? You come here often?"

"Only when mother's upset," he responded with a smirk. The cleric accepted the explanation and the pair moved on, following an exchange of waves with the merchant. "This is where you can meet the real people of Ylisse," the prince said in a slightly elevated voice, "There's no accounting for rank or social stature here; money is the great equalizer. If he has much to spend, the poorest beggar can be treated like a king, and if you haven't a coin in your pocket, then even someone like me will be laughed away."

"Isn't that a bit of a shame?" Larissa remarked, watching two men in dirty clothes struggle to pull a bit of meat away from one another.

"It's more a fact of life, in my eyes. There's no changing human nature, so you might as well embrace it," Argos led her away. "I'd like to stay longer, but we could end up stuck here all day," the prince turned his eyes ahead, "I want to show you someplace that aligns with your particular interests."

"What's that?" the cleric wondered.

"You'll see," her guide told her, walking a bit faster. Larissa continued to wonder about this location until they walked out of the densest part of the city and away from the tallest of buildings to find a frankly massive statue of the goddess Naga, hewn of a fine silver material, that stood with her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, offering alms to all the people of Ylisse, and the world. That was what she had been told about the Central Church of Naga's famous statue, at least.

The prince was still beaming as the pair approached the door and he knocked on it, but Larissa began to squirm, "I don't think I should enter, my lord. I fear I'm not worthy of such a holy place."

"Don't be silly," he shook his head, "You're in my company, one of the holiest men in all Ylisse by default. You may go wherever I tell them you may go."

She folded her hands in penance nonetheless, lowering her eyes, "If milord says so."

Eventually, the great stone doors opened and Argos led his companion inside, nodding to the monks and priests that looked to them as they walked through the hall. As they proceeded through the hall, lit a pale bluish-purple by the dark stone that framed it and the low torchlight that maintained visibility, they approached a monk, his face pale and wrinkled from age, sporting a snow-white head of hair, who was presently transcribing a tablet of some sort to a piece of parchment, aided only by a single candle, which was dying by the minute. "Good day, father," Argos saluted.

He picked his head up, "Prince Argos? What a pleasant surprise. What brings you here today?"

"I'm entertaining a request from a young nun who saved me from a little scrap I got into," he chuckled, gesturing to the blonde beside him.

Larissa froze and bent her head, yelping, "I pray my presence here does not offend, sir."

"Rise," the monk gestured with his fingers, "You are a servant of Naga; there exist no holier men or women in the world. So long as you practice our faith, you are more than welcome here, dear girl."

She bowed again for good measure, "Thank you, kind sir."

"If the young lady would like a look into how we operate," the monk continued, looking back down to his work, "I'm sure Franco wouldn't mind showing you around."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Larissa exclaimed, then clasped her hand over her mouth for fear she had been too loud. A priest, presumably Franco, appeared behind them and offered to lead the way.

[...]

"Milord appreciates the opportunity to speak to you on such short notice," the thin advisor smiled graciously.

"It's nothing," Silas chose to look to the king instead, "A lot is transpiring in Plegia these days, from what I'm told. I'm pleased to have the chance to communicate with its leadership before any unfortunate accidents might occur."

"Indeed," answered Plegia's king with a small smile. He was a man equally imposing as Silas, standing at roughly the same height and dressed in great black robes accented with gold frills and cuffs to emphasize his elevated status. The king himself had a full head of scarlet hair, which was combed straight back and slid down his sideburns into a beard that covered his chin and surrounded his upper lip. From what the advisor said, he was called Abdiel. Abdiel stared straight at Silas, "My foremost wish is to prevent any misunderstandings between our peoples."

"Of course," the exalt gestured to welcome his fellow ruler into the meeting room, carefully watching the back of the king and his advisor as they proceeded. When he felt assured, Silas seated himself, "Now, what is it, precisely, you wish to convey?"

"First," Abdiel outstretched a hand, "let me dispel the myth that the Grimleal believe the followers of Naga to be infidels; this is a misrepresentation and a simple untruth. The mythology of the Grimleal does claim that Grima and Naga once warred against one another, but this is a cautionary tale, a tragedy, a folly. No violence is encouraged against Naga's servants in the Grimleal faith."

"That is reassuring to hear," Silas nodded, "but can I feel certain that your populace feels the same?"

"Oh, gods yes," Abdiel grinned, "I'm a Grimleal myself; the people of my country receive precisely the same sermons as I do, I've made it law. To disobey that command is heresy, punishable by execution."

The exalt closed his eyes a moment and nodded again, "Very well. What else?"

"Well, I was hoping that by dispelling that myth I could encourage some cooperation between our nations, as I can tell you we sorely need it," continued the Plegian king, putting his hands together.

Silas readjusted his position in his chair, "Go on."

Abdiel bowed his head, "Well, as you must know, Plegia has been a land of great struggle for some time, but by the establishment of a Grimleal order to instill a sense of morality in the people, we've finally hit some note of control, but if we don't deliver the things people need, the nation will descend back into anarchy."

Expecting this answer, Silas folded his hands, "And what do the people need?"

"Food, housing, security... Mostly food, as so much of the land can't support farming," the king described.

The exalt nodded, "I understand, but food in my country is also running scarce due to the ferocity of this past winter."

Abdiel frowned, "Certainly, I see the dilemma, but anything you can provide is sure to be a boon to our struggling peasantry. I implore you, even just a few hundred pounds. Think what such a benevolent gesture would do for your reputation among this growing population."

"Perhaps," resolved Silas, "but I don't operate on possibilities; my people will string me up if they discover I've given the food they need to Plegians for a bit of good press."

"Even if said Plegians are dying by the day?" the other king growled.

"I'm sorry," the exalt rose from the table, "If there's nothing else, I'll ask you to leave."

"How can you be so unreasonable?!" Abdiel shouted.

"I have a country to watch over," Silas rolled his eyes, "everyone who doesn't get his way thinks I'm being unreasonable when I'm being the most logical man in the room."

"Is that all? Sarcastic quips are all Plegia should expect from its pig-headed neighbor?" the Plegian king railed.

"Well, it's not just that I have no love for your country," Silas changed his glare to face the advisor, "I saw the knife." The advisor's face fell as he glanced back and forth from his superior to the exalt, looking for help.

Abdiel rose, "Tena, you fool! I told you not to bring that damned thing! I said this would be a peaceful encounter."

Tena bowed, "I sincerely apologize; I feared for my lord's safety. I pray you can forgive me, Exalt Silas, or, if not, let your ire remain with me and not with my lord."

"I'm going to give the both of you one minute to walk out of my palace, and don't show your faces again unless you plan of perform an act of considerable good faith," Silas began tapping his foot impatiently.

"We understand," Abdiel pushed in his chair, beckoning his subordinate, "we understand that you Ylisseans are adorably gullible." Before Silas could process the remark, the king spun around and drove a blade into his chest, "Didn't see that one, did you?"

Silas grunted as the blood spilled out of the wound and onto his armor, "Bastard..." The exalt gripped his assailant's wrist and clenched his hand with all his might, eliciting an unclean-sounding snap that made the Plegian king jump back. Abdiel clutched his broken wrist as the exalt slumped to the floor, dripping blood onto the carpet.

Hearing the sound, door guards pushed into the room, but were subdued simultaneously by the king and his advisor. The pair lowered the bodies to the floor and moved silently out the door, picking up their feet as they neared the door. As they reached it, Abdiel stared at his compatriot, "Now, you know what to do." Tena nodded and hurried into the next room as the king escaped, bypassing only two bewildered guards before ducking into the nearby woods.

A cheerful humming radiated from the castle's reading room as Dana lifted a slice of apple to her mouth and swallowed it, smiling contentedly and turning the page of her book as she swung her knees a bit and felt the juices of the apple hit her tongue. A guard assigned to her smiled fondly as she glanced back, then looked forward just in time to receive a stab to her stomach that dropped her to the floor in shock. A shout came from upstairs, "Naga have mercy, the exalt's been murdered!" Dana's eyes widened and she slapped her book shut just in time to see Tena draw slowly into the room. "You will know despair, heathen!" he proclaimed loudly, driving his weapon straight into the queen's throat. The blood bubbled as she tried to sputter, but she folded up onto the floor in only a moment. Shortly after, guards rushed in to find the assassin and ripped him to shreds with their weapons.

But Tena fell with a smile on his face: the damage was done.

[...]

"And here," Franco extended his arm, "is the most treasured weapon in Ylisse, for it is also a holy artifact, one of the very fangs of Naga, or so it is said. Nevertheless, the blade has been wielded by the exalts of Ylisse for as long as time has flowed."

Argos and Larissa admired the glittering gold blade, its tip shining radiantly even in the dark of the cave.

"When Lord Argos comes of age to take on the duties of exalt, he will wield this blade before all, just as did his father, to prove the worth and purity of his blood," Franco concluded, appearing equally awed by the relic. Suddenly, a priest cloaked in black approached and muttered something inaudible into Franco's ear. The monk started and looked at the prince carefully, "Ah... Prince Argos... you're wanted at the palace. It seems your mother and father... may be in trouble."

Argos's eyes widened and he seized Larissa by the hand before charging out of the darkened sanctuary. The prince said nothing and did not slow down in his running, backtracking across the entire length of the city he'd toured with Larissa and storming straight into his home. Of course, it was already too late when the prince arrived: he shouted and Larissa shrieked when they saw soldiers lifting Dana's body and attempting to wipe the blood from her neck.

"Mother..." the prince mewled as he drew close, "what did they do to you? Why...?" Tears began to form in the young lord's eyes, but he heard sets of footsteps moving upstairs and rushed to find their source. The boy fell to his knees at the sight of his fallen father, "Gods, no..." His head drooped over the cadaver, sapphire hair obscuring his face as he wept, his cheeks burning red. Soldiers entered the room to take away the exalt's body, as they had his wife, but the prince halted them, "Who did this? Tell me you apprehended him."

"He's dead, sire," one soldier answered, "An advisor to King Abdiel of Plegia."

The prince stared blankly at his father's body before pulling the dagger out from his bloodied chest, lifting it and letting it glint with a ruby hue as it pointed toward his face. The prince stood, sliding the knife into his belt and wiping his tears on his sleeve, "Then... I will not be satisfied until this blade rests in the heart of King Abdiel."


	3. Chapter III

Chapter III

The young blonde plodded up the stairs carefully, hearing every one of her footfalls reverberate off the otherwise silent walls. She knew what she would find couldn't be good news, but she understood that it would be important that she see it, if not solely to see the prince's reaction; something told her he would be in a certain shape following this day.

She was right, of course. Prince Argos had his bloodied fist clenched, albeit weakly, with severe strain on his eyes and arms, the latter of which were shuddering as he stared at the corpse of what was once Exalt Silas. Larissa halted within the door frame, taking a moment to consider how to proceed, but she found precious few answers in the lethal silence of watching the prince huff bitterly, holding back his sobs. Finally, summoning all her courage, the cleric took a step forward, "My... my lord... Words cannot begin to express my sympathy for your loss."

"No," he responded coldly, "they can't."

"Obviously," Larissa glared at the remaining guard in the room, "Ylissean authorities are, as we speak, preparing to bring to justice the man who was responsible for this paramount offense."

Argos slowly shook his head to each side, "My parents' murder has already succeeded in slinking into the shadows... And I will not be satisfied until I see his guts, or lack thereof, sitting in a pile atop Plegia Castle."

The blonde began to turn her nose at the thought, but seeing a need to proceed, she stepped forward, drawing ever closer to the grieving prince, "I understand your desire for vengeance, but is the pursuit of it wise at present?"

He cut a glance up at her, "Do you presume to know better?"

"Not at all, but..." she shrunk, "surely your people will need guidance in the absence of their leaders."

Argos tried to raise one of his arms, but it fell limp at his side, "Every fiber of my being wishes to run down to Plegia by myself and kill the man responsible... I cannot and will not simply sit and wait..."

"And you won't," Larissa pressed, getting closer, "You can have your chance, but you must approach it with a level head and a proper strategy; suicide won't do you or your citizens any good."

"But..." the prince growled to himself, "What can I do...? This hatred... I want to burn someone, tear them to shreds! I can't simply subdue this feeling... I have to have blood...!"

"Hasn't enough already been shed today?" the blonde beside him begged.

"No!" he shouted back, "This... transgression has created a debt! A debt for which I will have payment!"

"In due time!" she shouted back, "But not today!"

That prompted the sapphire-haired prince to whip around and leer at her, "Are you giving me an order?! I could have your head on a pike in five minutes if I wanted!"

"But you won't!" Larissa retaliated, feeling beads of sweat materialize on her forehead.

The prince edged closer, dipped his head so that his eyes were not visible, and lowered his voice so that it sounded like a different man altogether said, "And why not?"

"Because..." her voice shuddered, but she swallowed the emotion, "Because you're better than that. Better than the butcher responsible for this."

Argos held his position for a second, then lifted his head to stare at the cleric. He stared intently and despondently, as if he was looking at his reflection in a precious stone of some kind, then turned away in disgust, "Piss." Larissa cocked an eyebrow and watched him as he shook his head away from her, muttering something to the ground, "You're right."

"What?" the blonde leaned to catch a glimpse of his face, not trusting her own ears.

"You're right," he repeated disdainfully, "I want to kill someone, but I can't. Because that would just make me an impetuous little child, wouldn't it?"

Larissa opened her mouth to speak, but she caught the guard near the prince shaking his head at her. She closed her mouth and continued to listen.

"...Piss," the prince spat again, "I know I must sound like a bloody lunatic... I just can't... I really do want to kill someone."

"I understand..." his companion mewled.

"No," he turned around, though this time his face was softer, albeit still creased with distaste, "I don't believe you do, but I appreciate your keeping me from doing something stupid."

"Cooler heads will always prevail," Larissa tacked on hopefully.

The prince stared at the floor, "I'll have to see to the funeral arrangements."

"The castle coroner is already attending to your mother, milord," the nearby guard provided.

The sapphire-haired man nodded dully, "Leave us for now, will you?"

"Milord," he saluted before making his exit.

Larissa clasped her hands together, watching Argos stare at the bloodied floor a few minutes more, contemplating it deeply, suggesting that it was only now, past the heat of rage, that his mind began to comprehend the gravity of the body sprawled out on the floor. "You're not just a normal nun, are you?" the abruptness of the question startled Larissa, whose eyes widened. The prince seated himself at the table as he awaited her answer.

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning, milord," she bowed.

"Don't settle back into that now," he called her out, "What kind of nun tells the prince what to do? Calls his bluff when he threatens her with death?"

"It... seemed like the right thing to do," she squeaked, "I was afraid you or someone else might get hurt if I didn't calm you down."

"Well, I'm calm," he sighed to the wall, "Sorry this was such a piss-poor little tour."

"I think you have the fewest reasons to apologize of anyone here right now," the blonde replied.

He murmured an agreeable response, then looked up slowly, "Can I ask for a few moments alone, to say goodbye to my father?"

"Of course," she curtseyed almost reflexively, "I... I should probably return to the convent for tonight, unless milord desires that I stay."

"No," he continued in monotone, focused on the floor now, "You run along. I have a lot of work to see to."

[...]

Larissa pushed open the thin wooden door to the convent as the sun sank into the ground behind her, wiping her face and wondering if there remained any semblance of emotion upon it. She took a few tentative steps inside, hoping to simply wander toward her bed and lay down, so that no one would question her about her day.

Her hopes were dashed quite immediately, however, as Sister Marla turned a corner into the front room just in time to spot the wearied nun. "There you are, child," the older cleric bellowed, "And where is the prince? Did he accompany you back?"

"No, Sister Marla," she breathed, "there was... uh, Prince Argos had a personal matter and dismissed me."

"Jus' as well," the nun told herself, "I hadn't the foggiest what he'd want with you, anyhow. Well, you know you got chores, child, so go on and get to 'em."

Larissa's head drooped, "Yes ma'am." She began to shuffle toward the laundry room, suddenly noticing her sandals were stained with blood. It was a good thing the old nun cared more about the chores than Larissa herself, or else she might've suspected something. She continued to stare down as she traipsed past the wicker laundry basket, filled with at least twenty other habits, deposited by the other nuns. Finding that her own clothes were also dirtied, the blonde shrugged and threw her outfit off, replacing it with the long, cotton pajamas that were standard in the building, and that were conveniently housed in the very same room. The cleric sighed and briefly massaged her face with one hand as she dragged out the iron basin, pulled it outside to the spigot and began to slowly fill it with water, dropping the washboard in after a bit.

It was going to be a long evening.

[...]

Larissa threw back the white linen slowly, wiping her eyes and simultaneously bracing them against the faded yellow glow of dawn that streamed in through the room's lone window, a dusty artifice that was so forgotten in the cleaning that it scarcely served its purpose anymore. Breathing loudly in her sleep was Melody, another sister, bundled in a fetal position amid the soft sheets of the bed across from Larissa's; for efficiency's sake, the room was only wide enough to accommodate these two beds and space to leave each one down the middle. The girl who remained asleep had thick strawberry brunette locks, usually curled at the ends, that encompassed her head, most of which now covered her face as she slept, occasionally blown off in an amusing fashion by her respiration.

It wasn't a detail Larissa paid much attention to recently. "Melody, time to get up," the blonde cleric told her gently. No response. "Melody, wake up, please," she tried again, not raising her voice much. Still nothing. She shook the other nun's shoulder, releasing a bit of her frustration, and stated, still rather quietly, "Melody, you need to get up."

Finally, the other nun swatted the assaulting hand away with her own and groaned with dissatisfaction. "No..." she pled weakly to no one in particular.

"Come on, dear," a frowning Larissa begged.

"I'm up," Melody muttered, kicking her legs out over the edge of the bed and pulling herself into a seated position as she tossed aside her blanket. Vacantly, the brunette cupped shielded her eyes and took a look out the dirtied window, evaluating the sunrise, "Ugh... Up bright and early today, eh Larissa?"

"Well, we have a lot to do today, as always, right?" the blonde supposed, folding her hands together.

"I guess," the other nun rose from her bed and stretched out her arms with a wide but noiseless yawn. The pair began to discard their sleepwear and gather their habits from a joint closet near the room's only door. Larissa was the first to be fully dressed and straightened the cowl that covered the back of her head carefully, such that her platinum blonde hair was mostly covered by the garment, and emerged only in tufts near her forehead and diagonally-angled locks that flowed out from behind her neck. She fussed with this last piece of the garment rather fitfully until Melody took notice, "Is something wrong? You're acting more jittery than a cat near a bathtub."

Larissa dropped her hands to her sides and stared back, "Yes, yes. I'm fine."

The brunette cocked an eyebrow, but shrugged and finished dressing herself. When they were both dressed, they proceeded out of their small dorm in tandem, taking up the entire hallway as they walked shoulder to shoulder, snow-white habits swishing around their legs as they stepped out toward the convent's front room, where Sister Marla awaited them. The eldest nun had a vaguely stern look on her otherwise typically jovial and rotund, if wrinkled face. Sister Marla squeezed a slice of orange between her lips as the two girls approached. "'Bout time you two got up," she mused, nonchalant.

"Begging your pardon, Sister Marla," Larissa folded her hands together.

"Don't fret too much, honey," the elder nun replied, "'Sup to Naga to judge, not me." Sister Marla wiped her hands of orange juice and looked over the table set up beside her, which displayed the fruit bowl from which she had taken the orange and a small, sterling silver pot of piping-hot coffee, all atop a white tablecloth with gold trim that was just begging to be stained by an errant drip. Ignoring that, however, the convent's head nun picked up the coffee pot and poured herself and cup, taking a quick slurp before continuing. "I want you," she indicated Melody with her finger, "to help Sister Casey and Sister Helena finish painting the wall in the drawing-room."

"Yes ma'am," Melody responded quickly, taking off down a nearby hallway.

"And you," she glanced at Larissa, "You'll be in the infirmary again." The blonde cleric nodded slowly. "I think it's really your calling, child," Sister Marla added with a hint of pride, "you were born to heal, and that's what the spirit of Naga is all about."

"Thank you, sister," Larissa bowed humbly. With a final nod from the head nun, the blonde cleric left the front room.

[...]

The prince ran his hand through his sapphire hair before settling it down on the windowsill in front of him, letting out a short breath as he did so. The window of the castle looked out over a courtyard, resplendent with greenery imported from all corners of Ylisse. The area was moderate in size and formed a shapely rectangle, cut perfectly by lines of concrete that separated the vegetation from the beginnings of the castle's walls. Ordinarily, the courtyard looked brilliant, as if lit by an unseen source in a shimmering emerald glow, but sheets of iron clouds were slowly dropping in over the already weak daylight, covering this glow and making the view much duller, with only patches of gold light beaming through. Fatigued of the hopelessness of this view, Prince Argos turned away from it and simply stared at the wall, a dry, cream-colored brick that told him nothing.

But an answer lay very close, just behind the door. "Milord, forgive the interruption," a young but professional-looking guard with jet-black hair introduced himself.

Argos was surprised, but his face did not change, "No matter, go ahead."

The guard's head tipped just below Argos's chin, "Lord Silas and Lady Dana have been... prepared for their burial, sir."

The prince closed his eyes and nodded, "Thank you. I'll be downstairs in a moment."

"Still thinking things over, milord?" the guard asked, forgetting his impertinence.

Argos didn't notice it either, "I suppose... Is it... is it bad that I haven't cried?"

Similarly, the guard wasn't prepared to be asked such a question, "What's that?"

The prince repeated his sentiment, looking away, "All this time, since yesterday, even when I saw them, I sobbed a bit, but... When I think of them, think of my parents for who they were to me, I know I'm supposed to be saddened, but I can't manage a single tear."

"People deal with grief differently," surmised the guard, rubbing his neck, "I know folks who've gotten drunk at every funeral they went to, I even know one guy who talked to this widow's sister and..." Realizing his lack of decorum, the guard swallowed his tongue and cleared his throat.

A smile traced across the prince's lips, "No, do go on, what were you about to say?"

The guard blushed, trying to walk it back, "No-Nothing, just, well... The, uh, the guy tried to sleep with her... at the funeral... It's an inappropriate joke, I'm so sorry..."

"No," Argos held his hand up, "I've been holed up here, consumed by all this dour sentimentality, I could use a moment of levity."

The guard nodded and gave his thanks, "Anyway... if you want my two coins, you can't worry about what you're expected to do, you have a right to just take things as they come to you. Maybe the sadness hasn't really hit, or maybe it's already passing... or maybe it never will hit you, but that's only for you to experience. Now, downstairs, your parents are waiting for you to say goodbye, there'll be a whole lot of mourning from the townspeople all the way to the burial, and then you'll be expected to make a speech. The sooner you get done with all that, the sooner you can start to decide how you really feel, outside of all this pageantry."

Argos nodded with supreme comprehension, "You're quite right. Thank you, sir, you are a wise counselor indeed."

"Nothing of the sort," the guard shook his head, smiling, "Just a man sworn to serve his lord."

"What's your name?" Argos demanded.

"Milan, sire," the black-haired guardsman bowed, "at your service."

"Enough of that," Argos bid him rise, "stay with me for this torrid affair, I beg you. Your presence would make it much easier on my tired soul."

"As you wish," Milan accepted, stepping behind Prince Argos as he walked through the door.

The pair descended the stairs to find a small crowd of guardsmen, maids, and other various castle staff crowded around two ornate coffins, one a shimmering silver decorated with sapphire detailing and the other a glittering gold with varying amethyst and periwinkle adornments, the latter containing the late Dana and the former the ex-Exalt Silas. Voices were hushed immediately as the prince descended the stairs and looked upon his loved ones. He stared into each casket, first at the soft, soulful features of his mother, which, to him, looked repugnant in the obscene amount of makeup that had been applied to her face, covering what he found to be a natural beauty. Argos began to feel deeply saddened by the stiff, plastic quality of her now-lifeless hair. All in all, the prince surmised, they had made his mother up to look like a little girl's doll when she already rivaled the beauty of the goddess Naga; the preparation was an affront to her, and the prince turned away, disgusted. Remembering his purpose, however, he turned back quickly to kiss her forehead, still disquieted by her shut eyes, knowing that they would never open again. He whispered a farewell into his mother's deaf ear, praying that she could someday forgive him for failing to protect her.

When this was done, the prince raised his head and took a few steps over to his father's coffin. The old man looked considerably more like himself; no amount of makeup could ever change that hardened face, and the former exalt would have been proud to declare it so. Thinking of that elicited a smile from the prince, but he turned his lips down quickly for fear of looking like a madman. Argos felt no compulsion to kiss his father, rather, he merely took the former exalt's hand, whispered his thanks and a prayer for forgiveness for failing to protect his mother, then released the corpse's cold grip. Afterward, he looked up to find a wizened old bishop standing before him, carrying a strange little implement that burnt a purplish smoke of incense into the prince's nose. Understanding, Argos nodded to this bishop, who opened the castle's front doors and called out, prompting several large Ylissean soldiers with enormous shoulder pauldrons to enter and lift the coffins using gold railings along the side of each, seemingly crafted for that purpose. Argos looked to the ground as a few of the staff began to shuffle out the door. He looked up as Milan stepped beside him, extending a friendly, but reserved and polite smile.

[...]

Larissa felt her face tense as more of the blood poured out from the wound, following a grunt from the man before her and staining the sleeve of her habit. "Please relax, sir," she instructed calmly, "you'll only make the healing more difficult."

"Gods!" he cried out, clutching his partially exposed chest, "I can barely breathe!"

"Please, sir, be silent!" Larissa insisted, trying to hold him down. She held her staff in her right hand and concentrated hard as the orb atop it shone. Tissue sewed itself back together quite easily, but again and again blood spilled from the affected area. The cleric redoubled her resolve and pushed the magic even harder, feeling herself grow weak as she fought against the tide of bodily fluids. Taking the remainder of her concentration, the nun asked, "Do you have any prior medical diagnoses, sir?"

"What?!" he cried, "I'm bleedin fer godssakes!"

"This is important!" Larissa rebutted, "Have you ever been told you have any other ailments?!"

The man growled and became mostly silent, then piped up, "I, uh, got a bad cut a few years ago... damn thing wouldn't stop bleedin', so I had ta find a physician. He told me it kept bleedin' 'cause I'm a... what'd he say? 'Heemo-fee-lack?' That mean anything to you?"

Larissa's heart sank. "...Hemophiliac?" she guessed.

"That's it," the man concurred, "Whassat mean?" Larissa tried to compose herself and form a smile, but the patient caught on too quickly, "You're looking nervous... Don't tell me... Don't tell me..."

"It's a... a type of poison," Larissa lied, "it can get into the skin... It doesn't mean anything for this..."

The man's face fell, "That ain't true. You sound so different, I know that ain't true. ...I'm gonna die, ain't I, miss?"

"No," she told herself, clenching her staff so tightly all her fingers began to turn white, "I can still... I mean, you'll be fine, I just need to..."

The man reached over and grabbed her arm, "'Sokay, darlin'. I thought this might be the end o' me. You don't hafta lie, just gimme the truth... If I'm gonna go, let me go in peace, and with my last rights."

Larissa bowed her head, "...I can't stop the bleeding due to your condition... I will read to you from the Book of Naga, if it is your desire."

A choke could be heard in the man's throat before he folded his hands on his chest and answered, "It is."

Larissa nodded and took a volume from within her habit (all the nuns had miniature prints of the holy book in pockets sewn to the front of their garments, such was the rule) and began reading the ceremonial passage.

[...]

The procession halted in the middle of the vast cemetery, cool moss and wet, soft earth covering the area as the sun had been blocked out completely by the clouds. Argos put his arms behind his back as the bishop called the procession to attention, flipping open his copy of the Book of Naga. "Thank you all for attending on this... tragic day," the bishop began, "I know Prince Argos thanks you from the bottom of his heart for your willingness to stand beside him in this, his moment of greatest grief." The crowd looked to Argos, who nodded slowly to confirm this sentiment.

"And now," undertakers with well-worn shovels began to line up behind the bishop as the coffins were lifted, "As we commit these two spectacular servants of Naga, these paragons of humanity, to the ground and their unending respite from the strife of this world, we shall feed their spirits with the words of Naga." Members of the crowd shifted their feet, clasped their hands together, adjusted their stance, or otherwise prepared for the ceremony. Some even knelt to the ground in prayer. "O great Dragon Queen, who chose to have mercy on the souls of humans, who graced us with life, your greatest gift, we ask that you hear us now," the priest began.

"We present unto you these two souls, lost to our world, but a king and queen in yours. Their names are Silas and Dana, and they have served you nobly. As such, we ask that you grant them relief from their pains in their transition to your world. Their sins cannot be confessed, as they were struck down by a loathsome act of treachery, which we know shall be punished by you, our Goddess, but we know that you are aware of whatever transgressions they may have made, and we know equally that they will be forgiven, in recompense for their service to the good of all humanity."

[...]

"We ask that you take this same mercy upon all of us when our time to leave this world approaches," Larissa continued, "As we continue to serve our fellow men in greater service of you, Goddess Naga, Giver of the Lifeblood. In the name of Naga, and of the Holy Ylissean Halidom, we pray to you, amen."

The man, who revealed his name to be Grant, appeared to be pleased, as he lay back with the ghost of a smile upon his face, "I'm sad to see it all go, but I'm wonderfully excited to meet the goddess..."

"May you be at peace, servant of Naga," Larissa rose, frowning.

She continued to stand beside this man another minute or two, the blood continually ebbing from his open wound and the color fading from his face on a similar schedule. "It's all right," he proclaimed through a dry voice, "you can leave me, dear. I've made my peace with Naga. There's nothing to be said 'cept what's between her and me now."

The blonde cleric nodded in obeisance and walked slowly away to attend the remaining patients, most of whom were simply ill of infirm, though that caveat did little to change the mood of this day. Larissa's eyes shot open, however, as Sister Marla burst in, "Child, come with me! Sister Tabitha will cover for you; I need you young'uns to come with me for the Exalt's burial." Larissa accepted quickly and followed the head nun as she hurried back down the hall.

[...]

"...And," the bishop accentuated, calling Argos back to attention, "To administer the final mound, the last lashing on the ship that will carry these two to the shores of paradise, their son, the future exalt, will say farewell and address you all."

A shovel was handed to Argos quite ceremoniously by a rather overeager young undertaker, a boy with a thin, pointed face and hair the color of cherries. He presented the item proudly, trying not to smile. Argos took it, the dirt already balanced on the implement, and walked over to his parents' shared grave, summoning all his breath before dropping the clods to mix with the rest and tilling the soft soil with the shovel until it was finely compacted. It was over.

And then the prince took the stage.

"Citizens of Ylisstol," he called out in his most official of voices, "and from all of Ylisse... Thank you, for standing with me on an impossibly aggrieving day. Words cannot express my sorrow, and my ire, at the loss of my parents. My father, the exalt, was one of the greatest men to ever grace the halls of our capital, and he demonstrated an undeniable love for his people, a love that was shared by his wife, my mother, and indeed the nurturing mother of all Ylisse during her time as its queen, I think you'll agree."

"My plan, then, good people, is to reveal the treachery that is responsible for snuffing out the radiant flames of these two great people's existence: the menace, King Abdiel of Plegia!" the prince decried. Waves of shocked gasps ran through the onlookers. "That's correct!" Prince Argos shouted, "In the midst of a peaceable negotiation with a nation who has no right to demand anything of our own, King Abdiel had the audacity and the dishonor to assassinate my mother and father, simply goddess-fearing folk trying to do their best to assist a struggling, lesser nation, in their own household!"

More waves of shock exploded through the crowd. Unsettled roars of gathering indignation built up, instigating a great clamor that made it hard to hear anything out on the flooded streets of Ylisstol, but one phrase was heard quite clearly above the cacophony, which seemed utterly silent when it was delivered: "Death to King Abdiel!" The crowd noise quieted down a moment, then a few uncertain voices repeated the message: "Death to King Abdiel!" The shouts continued to pour out from the crowd: "Death to King Abdiel!" "Death to King Abdiel!" "Death to King Abdiel!"

Prince Argos nodded to the crowd as the chant became a roar, then commanded silence with his hand, to which the crowd complied. "I understand and empathize with your passions, good people. That is why, beginning tomorrow, the Ylissean Army will begin its recruitment for the Holy Ylissean Halidom's crusade to extirpate the menace of King Abdiel and his heretic Grimleal!"

The crowd exploded in cheers, generating deafening noise and leading Prince Argos to settle into a confident smile before his people, indulging their applause for several minutes before being escorted out.

In an indeterminable section of the crowd, Larissa watched on with her sisters. Hearing the words and the fervent cries of the crowd around her had concerned the young nun greatly, but she had to be certain, so she got the head nun's attention, "Sister Marla... What does Prince Argos mean, exactly?"

"Don't be a fool, girl," the elder nun chided her, "You heard 'im: Ylisse is now at war."

Cheers of excitement continued to spark through the air.


	4. Chapter IV

Chapter IV

The recruiter looked down the bridge of his nose at the boy, his spectacles sliding as he stared. "Name?" he asked with evident fatigue.

"My name is Frederick," the boy replied, folding his hands behind his back.

"And how old are you, Frederick?" demanded the recruiter, scratching at a page on his desk.

"...Old enough to give service to my exalt," the boy gave a sheepish smile following his hesitation.

The recruiter was unamused, "Your age. In numbers, boy."

"I'm... sixteen, sir," he ruffled a hand through his wavy brown hair, blushing.

"Mm," the recruiter raised his eyebrows without looking up. He made a mark on his page and asked young Frederick to find a seat until he was called. That task was easier said than done, however: young men lined the walls of the recruitment office, and even a few middle-aged men milled about in the center of the building, all impatiently awaiting their names with faces that ranged from sneers and smirks to long frowns. Most all of them were larger than Frederick, too, who quietly tucked himself into an unoccupied corner of the room. Every now and again a name would be called and a boy's face would light up with elation before he was sent into the on-site physician's office, where from he would inevitably emerge triumphantly and run out the door whooping.

A few were not so fortunate, slowly stepping out of the physician's with hunched-over backs and bitter scowls, some even tearful. The crueler among their audience would laugh at their misfortune, while others simply clicked their teeth in commiseration and turned their heads. Frederick swallowed rising fear each time he witnessed such an ordeal.

Some of the prospective recruits around the young man started chatting so loudly that he couldn't help but to eavesdrop: "What position d'ya think they'll give us?"

"I'd sure like to be like one o' them ridin' knights, perched up on a big horse, making ladies' hearts drum as I stroll past in all my glory."

"Yeah, you're just fulla glory, huh?"

"None of you are gonna be cavaliers."

"How d'you know?"

"They don't have time to train a thousand greenhorns to ride, they gotta save the horses for people who can ride 'em straight away."

"Bah, you're talkin' outta yer ass."

"I don't care a whit about a horse, sign me up for some o' that big, shiny knight armor. Keep me safe in the fight and look intimidating doing it."

"Yeah, a good set of armor'd be nice."

"Think we'll get ta meet the pegasus knights?"

"Ha! In yer dreams! Those girls'd plant a pegasus hoof in your face as soon as look at ya."

"I hear that Cap'n Phila's a real taskmistress. That and she doesn't much care for male company, if you catch my drift."

"Don't go talkin' rot, she'll hear it through the grapevine and have your commander make you do laps in the nude. That's what I heard."

"Yeah, right. From who, exactly?"

The conversation carried on in this vein for some time as Frederick tried to block out the noise and listen carefully for his name. Eventually, however, he was dragged in by an elbow to his stomach, "Hey kid, what are you here for?"

"What am I here for?" he repeated, asking a question with his eyes.

"Yeah," the man next to him nodded, "Got a girl you're trying to impress?"

"No."

"Bringing home the bacon to the family, then?"

"Not really..."

"Then what?"

"I... I just... really want to serve the exalt."

The man cocked an eyebrow, "...That's it?"

"Yeah," Frederick bowed his head a bit, "I mean, I'd always see Prince Argos in the yearly fencing matches, up there being congratulated by his father and... Well, I couldn't help imagining what it'd be like to share in that glory, to be able to stand beside the royal family."

This answer seemed repugnant to the inquisitor, who turned away with some mutter of disgust. It was at approximately that time that Frederick heard his name called, prompting him to jump up as he was directed to the physician.

[...]

The prince fidgeted with the armrests of his father's throne, shifting back and forth on the seat as he awaited the emergence of his guest. After seven torturous minutes, a gray-haired man lumbered into the room and announced, "Lord Argos, may I present Captain Phila of the Ylissean Pegasus Knights."

Behind the man came a young woman with vaguely cyan-colored hair tied up in an exceptionally professional bun that accentuated her serious countenance and sharp eyes, which knifed into Argos as she entered and stood before him. "Pleased to meet you, Captain Phila," the prince welcomed.

"Likewise, Prince Argos," she returned clinically.

"Although," the prince's eyes wandered, "I seem to recall being present for the retirement of your mentor, Captain Eris, correct?"

"Indeed," she bowed, "Milord and I did meet on that occasion."

The prince nodded, "Still, it's good to meet you formally. As I recall, your selection for promotion caused quite the stir among the pegasus knights."

"Quite," Phila responded bitterly, "Many of my peers considered me too young and inexperienced to be given the position."

"Then perhaps we have something in common," the prince chuckled, "I trust you know why you're here?"

"Yes, milord," the pegasus knight captain nodded, "On that subject, may we speak in private?"

"But of course," the prince acceded, waving off the few guards in the room as well as Phila's presenter. As the doors shut and the room fell silent, he asked, "Now, is there some concern?"

"Of course there's a concern, you fool!" she shouted, "Where do you get off, declaring war without seeking the pegasus knights' approval? You know we're meant to be your personal detail in wartime!"

"I am woefully unacquainted with some of the finer rules of my court," Argos conceded, "However, this matter was not my choice, it was thrust upon me."

"And now I'll be forced to thrust inexperienced girls into combat scenarios for which they're clearly unprepared," Phila growled, "That's going to affect my name a lot more than it ever could yours!"

"Captain Phila," the prince began to raise his voice, "I think you forget your position in this arrangement; I'm not asking for your permission. I have a goal in mind and I intend to achieve it. As far as I'm concerned at this point, you are either with me in that endeavor or against me, and you will seriously regret being against me."

"So the boy's parents die and now he gets to throw a tantrum, and we're all forced to support his insanity, is that it?" argued the pegasus knight captain.

The prince clenched his fist, then hesitated, "Do you have your lance with you, Captain Phila?"

"I hardly see what that has to do with-"

"Answer the question."

"Yes, I do."

Argos nodded and descended his father's throne, walking over to a nearby wall and taking a silver lance off of a shelf. The prince sidled back over to his father's throne but stopped in Phila's path, pointing the lance, "Then we'll do this the old-fashioned way."

"Please," scoffed the pegasus knight, "You wouldn't stand a chance. I've been trained under the most exacting standards in all Ylisse."

"As have I," he prince cracked his knuckles, "I was trained in the lance by my father, and now I command you to put his training to the test. Duel me, and we'll dispense with this tiresome business."

"Your funeral," Phila shrugged. She stood as the pair bowed to one another, then got into her stance, balancing the lance's weight carefully. Seeing that she was waiting for him, Argos took the go-ahead and thrust forward. Of course, Phila dodged the strike and kicked the head of the lance away when she was ready, then she launched a stab of her own. The prince brought his own weapon back into place in time to ward off the attack, and the two reset their positions. This time, Phila came forward, swinging for the prince's legs, but to her surprise, the prince planted his lance in the floor, blocking her mid-swing and bouncing the lance back with a loud metallic vibration. Without warning, Argos kicked hopped forward and kicked the pegasus knight in the face, smoothly retrieving his lance from the ground and jammed its butt into his opponent, knocking her to the floor.

"Cheating bastard!" Phila growled at him, blood trickling out from her broken nose.

"You have grace, Captain Phila, but you're naïve," the prince taunted, holding up his lance, "You think the enemy cares about the rules of engagement? The murdered my mother and father in their own home!" Phila close her eyes tightly as Argos's lance came down toward her, but it never arrived. Instead, the blade sliced through Phila's bun, ripping the carpet and denting the tile beneath. The prince picked Phila up, separating her from her new haircut, and punched her once more in the face, "While you are in my court, you will respect and obey me."

The pegasus knight captain backed down and lowered herself onto one knee, "...Milord... I... acknowledge your command. I will do as you ask."

"Good," the prince breathed, "I'll get you a vulnerary. Clean yourself up and begin preparing your troops."

"Yes sir," she gritted her teeth.

No other comments were directed at the prince as Phila escorted herself out of the castle, taking her pegasus and preparing to report the grave news to her sisters-in-arms.

As Argos composed himself following that meeting, he was immediately called to another announcement, this one from an older man the prince recognized as one of his father's companions at court. In his self-introduction, the elderly man claimed the same relationship to the late Exalt Silas, and thus his desire to aid young Prince Argos. "Do you have a plan of attack at this time?" the old man demanded.

The prince shook his head, "That's why I have military advisors. At any rate, I'll need to see Plegia before I can purport any particular sort of strategy."

"You'll be going to Plegia yourself?" the elderly man replied with mild surprise in his voice.

"Of course," nodded the prince, "I won't lead my people to war against my parents' murderer and then just hid behind their backs."

"In that case, I would like to offer you a gift, milord," said the elderly man before calling to the back of the room. In short order, two figures stepped out synchronously, clad in rather loud armor that shimmered ruby on one and emerald on the other. In red stood a man who had hard features, but didn't exactly give off the feeling of age; he looked to be in his early thirties, at most, but he carried himself with a professional poise as he folded his hands behind his back and turned up his chin toward the prince. His hair was combed finely and parted at a single line just off to the side of the line made by his left ear, and it was a deep shade of garnet that complimented his dark brown eyes.

At the side of this very prim and proper young man stood a woman with long, flowing aquamarine hair that ended well below her shoulders and was kept out of her face by a blue and white bandana. She looked considerably younger than her companion and sported a cocky smirk accented by a pair of enticing ocean-blue eyes. Also unlike her companion, her hands were at her hips, and her face moved up and down as she evaluated the prince.

"My lord," the elderly man cleared his throat, "Allow me to present Nicholas and Serena. They are two young but skilled knights trained to serve and protect the Ylissean clergy, however... Given the circumstances, I think protecting you would prove the more significant responsibility, and it will give them each a chance to garner the experience they crave."

"My lord..." hesitated the man in the ruby armor, "I do not wish to disobey you, and I am thrilled to have a chance to serve under the exalt-to-be, but I feel I would be deserting my duty to leave the good men of the church to fend for themselves."

The elderly man smiled coyly, "Fear not, Nicholas. The holy men of Ylisse have many ways to protect themselves; they'll be fine."

"Seriously, Nick," chuckled his companion in the emerald armor, "you'd want to stay locked up in another musty abbey for weeks at a time when the country's at war? And when you have a chance to serve the exalt in that war?"

"It's only because I feel a sense of duty and loyalty," Nicholas glared critically at the woman, "to something other than drink."

Serena shrugged, "What can I say? I like a good wine. Or rum. Or whiskey. Or beer. Or ale. Or-"

"Enough!" her compatriot shouted, "You're embarrassing us before the exalt!"

"Oh, right," she rubbed the back of her head, "Don't take any of that too seriously, Your Highness. I just like getting on Nick's nerves."

"And you do a fine job of it," Nicholas folded his arms and pouted.

Prince Argos looked the pair over and then looked up to the elderly man, "Are you certain about this? I'll have a great many guards, I'm sure. I don't want the men thinking I plan to form a ring of soldiers around me and march into the Plegian capital."

"They don't have to function as guards, if you don't desire it," the man returned, "You can send them into the fray or use them for reconnaissance... Whatever suits your plan best, these two can get it done."

"I see," the prince stroked his chin, "A uniquely fluid asset... Very well, I accept this gift with the utmost gratitude, good sir."

"Milord is most welcome," the elderly man bowed, "I will leave their direction to you from here on." As he finished this remark, the man nodded to his two knights and left the room.

"So," Nicholas coughed, "What would milord have us do?"

After a moment's pause, Argos declared, "Report to the barracks, located along the west wing of the castle, and speak to Knight Captain David for training. You're cavaliers, right?"

"Yes, sir," Nicholas bowed.

"Any chance we could take a moment's leave before that? I saw a tavern just a few streets away that I really wanted to hit up, and I'm so thirsty..." Serena added.

Argos lowered an eyebrow at the woman and droned, "No." She sighed with resignation as they began to walk out.

[...]

Picking up the rag and soaking it in a bucketful of water nearby, Larissa wiped the blood from her hands, grimacing as she applied pressure to wash away the scent of iron. She felt sick once more as she replaced the rag and the bucket quickly turned a filmy pink. Swallowing her misgivings, however, she turned back to the row of beds; fortunately, that had been her only serious injury for the day, or, at least, the only visceral one, as the others were predominantly illness. That didn't mean that there was any greater likelihood of survival among them, but they were considerably less upsetting to treat. She walked behind the row and stared soberly at her patients, simply pondering for a moment. She came to a young girl, her long hair practically wrapped around her like a second blanket, if an ineffective one as she coughed through a pair of feverish red cheeks. The blonde cleric applied the back of her fingers to this girl's head to feel her temperature and, gradually, as she felt, began to stroke the girl's hair to one side, caressing her ear a bit. In a second, though, Larissa caught herself in her stupor and lifted her hand, moving down the line to continue her check.

That was when she began to hear Sister Marla's voice down the hall: "Well sure, she's in there, but I can't have you interrupting-"

"I'm a royal envoy, ma'am," an unfamiliar male voice informed them both.

"You have any proof o' that?" Larissa could hear Sister Marla's gesture of putting her hands on her hips within her tone.

There was a pause as the pair made a few shuffling noises, including something that sounded like a frustrated sigh from the male voice. This was followed by the sound of Sister Marla's lips clicking, whispers of words spilling out from the miming of their sounds on her lips until she was finally satisfied, "Oh, I see. Well, sorry for holdin' you up, honey. It's just that I only have so many hands on deck, and I worry for the girls' safety when strange men come callin'..."

"I understand your position perfectly, sister," replied the stranger in a voice dripping with honey, "I admire your work and your dedication to the girls, so please, make no apologies. I'll just go about my work."

"Yes, yes, go ahead," Larissa began to hear footsteps trailing away, followed by a set that echoed nearer with each tap, shocking her into a jump to make herself look like she was working. As the footsteps neared the door, she picked up a vial of a bitter herbal medicine and spooned some out to offer to a patient, who accepted it half-consciously, as he always did.

Finally, the door opened and a young man with jet black hair stood behind it, wearing slightly more decorated armor than was typical of Ylissean soldiers, but had relatively the same design. The man took one long glance up the row of patients, then quickly directed his attention to Larissa, who pressed a hand to her chest and stared back with wide, glassy eyes. The stranger's face shifted into something more amicable as he found her, "Beg pardon, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Oh, no, it's all right," the blonde cleric smiled, shifting her weight.

"My name is Milan, and I'm looking for a blonde nun named Larissa. Is that you?" queried the soldier.

Larissa nodded quickly, "It is. May I be of service, sir?"

The strange soldier called Milan smiled again, "Indeed, my lord Prince Argos desires an audience with you, if you would be so kind."

The nun's eyebrows jumped up: the prince wanted to see her again, and so soon? She had assumed their last conversation would preclude any further chance of their speaking, at least for very long, but she couldn't deny that she was curious about Prince Argos, and about his motivations, specifically for inciting war against Plegia, about how he planned to fight King Abdiel. Something deep within her stomach told her she needed to speak with the prince again, despite the fact that it might get other people talking as well. "Of course," she nodded at Milan again, "I couldn't very well refuse such a request, could I?"

"I am certain you could," Milan chuckled in reply, "Milord most certainly does not want you to feel like his prisoner. You are invited as a guest, nothing more."

"Reassuring," she breathed, bearing a smile, "I accept. Are you to see me along?"

"Indeed," he offered his hand, "I will escort milady, if she is comfortable with it."

The blonde cleric took up his hand and followed Milan out of the convent. They walked in silence a few paces past the old wooden building and onto the cobblestone streets leading toward the inner layer of the castle town before Milan spoke up again, "So, have you been a nun your entire life?"

Larissa's eyes jumped open, as she had been concentrating on the other small crowds of people milling about the town, "Not precisely. I was raised like a typical peasant girl, helping with daddy's farm until I was about ten years old, but then daddy took ill. He stayed bedridden for days at a time, and I knew I couldn't do much to help, though I brought him anything he asked for. Eventually, the look on my mother's face told me the situation was looking bleak, and so... Well, I was sent to the convent at that point. I wrote to my mother about six weeks later to tell her that I was settled in and comfortable. I got a letter back from her a week before my eleventh birthday that said she was happy I could find sanctuary there and told me she missed me very much. I sent another letter in reply asking about my father's condition, but I never received any reply."

Milan's face had remained soft but concentrated throughout the anecdote, "And how old are you now?"

"I turned eighteen a month ago," the blonde tugged on her habit to adjust it.

"And so you've served Sister Marla all this time?" he continued.

"As best I can, yes," she mused.

Milan nodded, mostly to himself, "That's admirable. To work in service of Naga must be a very rewarding profession."

"I suppose," the nun sighed, "It's not without its trials."

"An irreligious nun? That's a new one," the soldier chuckled.

"Not irreligious," she shook her head, "just wearied. The spirit endures much harm by watching men, women, and children all crying out in their final moments. I'm glad to be the one that brings them peace and salvation, but I am only mortal, and I still grow cold staring death in the face."

"Ah," the black-haired stranger mused, "That's a fair point. Naga has truly blessed you with a great wisdom of the soul, young lady."

"You know," Larissa tapped her finger on her cheek, "inversely, you seem to be pretty religious for a soldier."

"Much of my life is based in the faith," Milan smiled genially, "Papa was a priest. He taught me the value of understanding the suffering of others and acting such that my conscience would always remain clear."

"And you can fight with that mentality?" the nun pressed.

"I prefer not to, but there's no harm if I am so ordered. At that point, I'm little more than a tool, and I'm no more to blame for my deeds than a hammer striking a nail. Guilt would fall to the commander who had delivered me that order," the soldier answered, scratching his chin.

"Maybe..." Larissa continued to think, now laying her entire palm beneath her cheek.

"Something wrong?" Milan cocked an eyebrow.

"No," she shook her head, "just thinking about a few things."

Milan nodded succinctly, then sped up his steps a bit, "Come on, we've just a little further to go."

[...]

A little to the left, he focused hard on the metal tumbler, rattling a little as he moved the lockpick around until he finally heard the satisfaction of a click, bringing a wide grin to his face. "Score," he whispered triumphantly to himself. Backing up, he flipped the lid off the small steel lockbox and peered inside.

And backed away immediately when he heard a door swing open. "How?!" he thought, he had been exceedingly careful to listen for footsteps as he sat in the darkened room and had never heard a single motion. Had he missed something? Were his ears going bad? Either way, the jig was up.

On the other side of the door stood a girl with mauve hair and pale, drooping eyes. Not a guardsman, or even a woman, but a girl. She had a flimsy helmet on her head that looked to have been fashioned by the hands of an amateur, perhaps her own. The little scrap of iron rattled on her head as she stepped in, quivering here and there. "E-Excuse me," she looked down at the young man seated before her, whose white hair, though clearly very carefully combed, spilled over onto his face a bit to cover up his pine-green eyes, "i-is this the re-re-recruitment office?"

The young man's eyes shifted to each side before he decided, "Uh, yeah, but you've got the wrong entrance. You want to go around the other side."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Thank you," she murmured, turning around with redness springing up on her face. The young man breathed with relief before lowering his hand down to the lockbox again, only to be interrupted once more, "Um, but then... What are you doing back here?"

"Me? Oh, I'm..." the young man rubbed the back of his neck, "I'm just double-checking the supplies for this office. Been checking every office in town since this morning."

"Oh, wow," the girl smiled, folding her hands together, "that must have been difficult. You're so dedicated! You must be quite a patriot!"

"Er, yeah," the white-haired man shifted his eyebrows, "Long live the exalt, or whatever."

"Well, sorry for disturbing you," she blushed through a small smile, "I'll let you get back to work."

He rolled his eyes and turned back to the lockbox, finally getting his chance to peer inside: yes, there were a lot of wages about to go missing...

Meanwhile, the mauve-haired girl pushed open the door on the opposite end of the building and walked through slowly, seeing the room packed full of young men chattering between themselves. A good number of these young men stopped and stared at the girl as she wandered over to the clerk's desk and leaned over, staring fretfully at the secretary. "Name?" the secretary asked, not looking up.

"Caroline," she answered, puffing out her cheeks as if to make her presence larger.

That got the secretary's attention, and the old woman looked up, cocking an eyebrow, "Are you... here to be recruited?"

"Y-Yes ma'am," Caroline answered, at once standing up as straightly as possible, making the rest of her makeshift armor, including a breastplate strapped over her shoulders and waist with cloth and a pair of boots whose design was so ill-conceived they looked painful to put on, let alone wear, rattle on top of her cotton vestments.

Ordinarily, this would be the highest amount of time the secretaries in recruitment offices would spend conversing with an applicant, but curiosity compelled the woman behind the desk: "Any particular skills?"

"I-I'm a mercenary," the girl proclaimed, thumbing at herself, "M-My mates... we're feared by bandits across the land. We offer private protection to Ylisseans. But now, we, or, at least, I want to help protect Ylisse on a grander scale."

The secretary seemed to remain unconvinced, "All right. Just have a seat over there, Caroline."

"Thank you," she swallowed, her head sinking as if her hands had just been unbound, "Oh, and please do pass along my compliments about the man checking your inventory to your supervisor. He was very helpful."

"The man checking inventory?" repeated the secretary.

"Yes," Caroline became embarrassed again, "the one with the white hair? He was looking in a lockbox when I asked him for directions..."

"...Right," the secretary looked off to her side and rang a small bell, prompting an armored man to come to her side, "Just go have a seat, dear."

"Yes, ma'am," she complied, quietly looking around and squeezing herself between the piles of arguing young men.

One such man looked back at the mauve-haired girl with interest, "Did I hear you say you were a mercenary?"

"Y-Yes," her lip quivered.

"Get out," scoffed another man, "Frilly little thing like you? What was the company's name?"

"I was with The Great Bears," Caroline murmured.

The other men laughed out loud, "You, a Great Bear? That's a good one, lassie."

"It's true," she pouted quietly.

"And just what kinda work did you do?" one of the men pressed.

"Captain Jeremy told me I had a firm heart, good for mixing with the commoners, so I protected homes overnight, mostly for elderly folks and women who were widowed or divorced," she answered, placing her hands on her knees.

The men exchanged glances, "Hey, protecting old folks and defenseless ladies is all right for a little girl who probably doesn't even know which way to point a sword. You don't have to lie."

"I'm not lying," she defended weakly, "Ah, Captain Jeremy... give me strength."

As the men prepared to turn back to their conversations, another sound interrupted them: that of someone bursting through the front door, and sounds of dragging and kicking behind this person. The guard to which the secretary had spoken stepped through the door, dragging along the young white-haired man, who was kicking at the floor and clawing at the door frame to be let loose. "Found this little craven trying to pilfer the office's funds around back," announced the guard.

At this, the men in the room all turned to stare with hatred at the would-be thief. At once, the white-haired man stopped his scrambling, folded his hands together and calmed his face, looking out to the men, "I'd like to state in my defense that those charges aren't true." Few hearts seemed swayed.

"Oh yeah?" grunted the guard, "Then what were you doing?"

"I was looking for a ring," announced the man, "One that was stolen from me by a Ylissean soldier."

"Right," the guard scoffed, pulling a pile of coins out of the man's pocket. The white-haired thief stared at the gold and swallowed. The guard then faced the recruits, "Stealing from the Ylissean war fund... What do you think we should do with him, boys?"

"Give 'im here, we'll fix 'im!" shouted a group of men. Several others echoed the response until the room became filled with shouting once more.

"I say you let him go," a shrill voice lifted itself above the shouting. The men turned and found that it had come from the mauve-haired girl. "He's not a bad person," she defended, "or, at least, he hasn't been convicted of anything. I mean, I know plenty of people who've had to steal to feed themselves."

"Thank you," the thief projected a smarmy smile at his captor.

"Shut up," the guard punched him in the gut.

"Just let me take care of him," Caroline insisted, "he can... work for me. He can be my squire. That'll be his punishment."

"What's it to you, anyway, girl?" the guard leered at the young mercenary.

"He's, uh... he's my brother. I told him not to do these sorts of things, but he just keeps ignoring me," Caroline summoned all her courage to sound audacious.

"Squire to your sister..." the guard mulled it over, "Ha, that's pretty rich. All right, girly, he's all yours, but if he gets in trouble again, it's on your head."

"Yes, sir," she saluted as the thief was released. He wandered over to the mauve-haired girl and sat down. "Why did you lie to me?" she whispered angrily.

He gestured to the guard irritably, "To avoid that exact situation."

"Well, it happened anyway," she sneered at him, "And now I'm going to teach you how to be a good person through a little hard labor."

"My favorite," the white-haired man frowned.

"Let's start with your name," she proceeded, "I'm Caroline, and you are?"

"Renard," he muttered back.

"Is that your real name?" she eyed him carefully.

"Yes," Renard sighed, "Why would I lie at this point?"

"Well then, Renard," she ignored him, "Your journey of personal redemption begins today."

"Can't wait," the thief rolled his eyes.

[...]

Argos tapped his fingers along the armrests of his father's throne, the knuckles of his other hand pressed into his cheek as he waited. His stomach had begun to hurt in the time he had spent waiting, but he knew better than to consult the castle physicians, for he would remain in the infirmary all evening if he did. Sighing, he cast his eyes down to the carpet and tried to place his thoughts elsewhere. The prince had never imagined there would be so many meetings involved in starting a war, that was for certain. Day in and day out, he had been seeing people pf varying ranks and conversing about combat readiness and strategy; the prince had assumed he would simply declared his intent, gather up an army, and get down to fighting, but now... Now he understood why his father always seemed so exhausted by the end of the day, enduring these trivial people and their trivial concerns. The gods-forsaken pettiness of some of the members of this very court was outright excruciating.

But here came the sound of footsteps, and the prince picked his head up to see Larissa enter on the arm of Milan. "Milord, the good cleric Larissa," Milan bowed before getting out of the way.

"You wanted to see me, milord?" Larissa wrung her hands as she looked up.

"Yes," Argos descended his throne, "I, um... That is, er... I'm very grateful for the talk we had... you know, before."

"Right," she nodded, recalling it.

"And I wanted to extend my thanks..." he rubbed his neck.

Larissa looked to each side, "Um, you're welcome, milord. It's nothing."

"No, it's not," the prince declared definitely, taking Larissa aback. "Sorry," he sighed at her surprise, "it's just... I'm not very good at this... I..."

"What's 'this?'" the blonde inquired.

Argos blushed, "Uh, well, it's just... you're a fine young lady, and, uh... I'm wondering if you'd like to accompany me for dinner tonight."

"I don't know," she gave a faint smile, "it didn't go so well the last time I spent the evening with you."

The prince's eyes fell, "Of course, yes... I understand, I was only-"

"I'm just joking," she smiled, "If... if you'd like me to stay for dinner, I'd be honored."

"Really?!" his face brightened. The prince quickly cleared his throat, "I mean, er, that'd be lovely. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she giggled, "...So, what shall we do until then?"

Argos's eyes widened, not having anticipated the thought, "Uh... what would you like to do?"

"I'm told the royal garden is lovely," the cleric mused.

"Of course!" her host concurred, "I'll take you there straight away."

"And I've always been curious about the contents of your library," Larissa continued.

"I'll get whatever books you'd like," he grinned, "and I'll be happy to discuss any that I've read. I was always a fan of literature in my schooling."

"That sounds very nice," the cleric smiled as the prince walked up to her.

"Excellent, then let's get to it," Argos offered his hand, "May I?"

She took it and they slowly walked beside one another out toward the library. Milan craned his neck around a column until the pair left, then nodded in contented silence.


	5. Chapter V

Chapter V

Milan's horse grunted lowly as it sidled up next to to Argos's, setting the pair side by side. He took a second to judge his lord's face, then cleared his throat, "Well, what do you think of your vanguard, milord?"

Argos's eyebrows remained cocked, "I'd be lying if I said it's what I was expecting."

Before the prince of Ylisse stood what was certainly a rough selection of troops: the two cavaliers that had been presented to him almost a week earlier were at the far left, the one in red beaming back up at him and the one in green fidgeting with what was clearly the lid of a flask in her pocket. After them came a girl with mauve hair and tired eyes and a white-haired young man who seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be tethered to her. Beside them, there was also an exceptionally young-looking brunette cavalier who was locked in a firm salute, a sneering man in priest's garb sporting fine chestnut hair and a blonde nun atop a horse. Several rows of soldiers stood behind them, but, evidently, this lot was the stand-out.

"They were hand-picked," Milan offered, "Don't be so quick to judge. At any rate, they're the ones most likely to get killed, so at least give them some courtesy."

"But are they really ready for war?" Argos wondered aloud.

"They may simply need time," Milan supposed, "Even the most accurate and lethal sniper started off throwing rocks in his back yard."

"Well, if they're going to be around me, I suppose I'll need names," the prince shrugged, commanding his steed to trot forward and line him up parallel to his troops. "Nicholas and Serena, I've already become acquainted with you both, so I'll leave you be, but, for the rest of you, I'd like to know your name and why you're hear to serve me, as well as all of Ylisse. We'll begin with you, madam," he indicated the mauve-haired girl.

"My name is Caroline, milord!" she replied enthusiastically, though her eyes never fully opened, "And it has always been my goal to serve Ylisse, including when I protected them in the employ of Captain Jeremy as a Great Bear!"

Argos plugged his ears, "That's lovely, but please, lower your voice."

Her expression shrunk into a frown, "Y-Y-Yes, milord."

"And you?" the lord cast his eye to the snowy-haired man beside her.

"I'm her brother, Renard, here to make sure she doesn't get herself killed," he answered in a monotone.

"Were you a mercenary, too?" Argos pressed.

"No," he glared back.

"Then what fighting skill do you have?" the sapphire-haired lord demanded.

"None," he cast a glib smile, "ain't that a bitch? And I'm here anyway."

Argos wasn't amused, "There must be something you can do."

"Renard is v-v-very good with locks, milord," Caroline answered for him, "and he can t-t-tiptoe ar-round the battlefield n-no problem."

"Sounds like a thief," Argos sneered.

"Sounds like none o' your business," Renard folded his arms.

Argos proceeded down the line, muttering, "Maybe I'll just throw you into their base and see if you come back out with some coins."

Before the prince could reach his next soldier, the brunette saluted again, "My name is Frederick, sir, and it has always been my dream to serve the royalty of House Ylisse."

That brought a quick smile to the prince's face, "Well you lack for neither enthusiasm nor patriotism. You seem a bit young, though, Frederick."

"As are many of milord's recruits," Milan noted, several steps behind.

"I promise, my youth will not be a hinderance, Prince Argos," Frederick swore, "Only give me the chance to prove it."

The prince nodded and proceeded to the clergymen at the end of the line, "And you two... I believe you come from the local tabernacle, correct? The sanctuary?"

"I do, milord," the man answered definitely, asserting himself, "My name is Franco, and I'm a priest. The only one who does any work in that building, too."

Argos laughed, "Not a big fan of authority, then, I take it."

"Not a fan of bigwigs who do nothing all day," Franco corrected.

"Me neither," Argos nodded empathetically, "So, no offense, but why did they send you instead of any other priest?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Franco folded his arms.

Argos shrugged, "And what about you, young lady? If not from the sanctuary, from whence do you come?"

"I actually live in a local convent," she rubbed her neck, "My name is Melody."

"And you're a troubadour? I don't see very many of your type at work these days," the prince noted.

"I was assigned to be a troubadour," Melody grimaced, "I hadn't ever ridden a horse until last week."

Argos glanced back at Milan, who shrugged in a slight admission of defeat. "Well, whatever the case may be, I believe you all know that the object of this campaign is to extirpate King Abdiel of Plegia and his heretic Grimleal." Most of the soldiers before him nodded and muttered in accedence.

"I wanted to ask about that," remarked a voice from the door behind them.

"Larissa," the prince noted softly, "What are you doing out here?"

"Forgive me my impertinence, milord, but I wanted to ask why it is you're so intent on hunting down the Grimleal," the cleric answered.

"You should know better than anyone," Argos responded with frustration, "You know they were responsible for my parents' murder."

"I thought it was King Abdiel who was responsible for that," Larissa argued.

The young lord gestured to Milan, then distanced himself from his troops as the dark-haired man began to mutter something about duty. Argos walked up to his guest and stared at her curiously, "Just what are you doing? Are you trying to undermine me in front of my men?"

"Not at all," she shook her head, "I just want to understand why Ylisse needs this war. And I want to be sure you understand as well."

"Well, you saw what happened to my parents-"

"I'm not asking about your parents, I want to know why you're against the Grimleal."

"As a worshipper of Naga, why should you care? You're diametrically opposed."

"But as a fellow member of the clergy, I'm inclined toward empathy. Tell me you have a good reason."

The prince looked to each side and sighed, "You'll never believe me if I tell you."

Surprised, Larissa put her hand over her chest, "Oh no, I'd never dismiss anyone outright. It doesn't mean I'll agree with you, but I certainly want to hear your reasoning."

With another heavy exhale, Argos whispered, "Naga... I saw her. She visited me in my sleep. When she did, she told me about my fate, gave me a prophecy, of sorts. She told me of one mad king toppling to yield another, the corruption of a church, and the birth of a child, an Awakener."

"I'm not sure I understand," the cleric admitted.

"I don't comprehend it all myself, as I'm just a mortal," Argos conceded, "but I can see some truth in it: look at what's happened in Plegia. They have a new king on the rise, one who was popularized and installed on the back of his being a Grimleal. Plegia is becoming a theocracy, and my father's murderer is at its head. And, let's not forget, Plegia's last king was deposed by an internal rebellion."

"One mad king replacing another..." Larissa's eyes widened as she put the pieces together.

"And said king is now the de facto leader of his church. Just think of what he could do with a whole host of Grimleal fanatics convinced that Ylisseans are some sort of bloodthirsty monsters," Argos continued.

"The corruption of a church," Larissa nodded, "but what about this 'Awakener?'"

The prince leaned back and looked away, admiring his House, "Legends in the Ylissean royal family tell of members who spoke directly to Naga, passed the trial pf her fire and became blessed by her power. Said members were the heroes of their age, wielding the legendary Falchion-a sword fashioned from one of Naga's own fangs-and the Shield of Seals to dominate any foe."

"The 'Shield of Seals?'" she bid him continue.

"Ylisse's other national treasure, you may have heard it called the 'Fire Emblem,' as it symbolizes the divine protection of Naga's ever-burning flame. The shield itself is only metal, but when five magic gemstones are gathered and placed inside the shield, it is said to break the seal that binds Naga's power, allowing its holder to have her strength," Argos recited as best he could from lessons on Ylissean mythology.

"But then why seal Naga at all?" Larissa cocked an eyebrow.

"I don't claim to know everything," Argos shrugged, "Perhaps Naga's power is too great for an extended stay in our realm. All I know for certain is that if an Awakener is to be born, then the world is in grave danger."

"Who do you think it will be?" the blonde asked.

"It must be a member of the Ylissean royal family..." Argos looked around, as if said member would suddenly appear to him, "But... I don't know how that could be..."

Larissa cupped her chin and sighed, shifting her brow back and forth as she made minor grunts of effort and discontent before finally bowing and declaring, "All right. Well, at least I know you're serious."

"You believe me?" the sapphire-haired lord stared back, expecting precisely the opposite reaction.

"Oh yes," she nodded confidently, "The church of Naga tells us that Naga does visit some of the fortunate among us, and if she visited a member of the Ylissean royal family, it must be a message of great import. I know better than to ignore a thief warning of burglaries, as it were."

"...Thank you," the prince breathed simply.

"Ahem," Milan coughed abruptly and somewhat nervously, "Milord, I believe your men are waiting for you."

"Quite right," Argos pivoted around to face them, "As I was saying, we'll be combatting King Abdiel of Plegia and his Grimleal. This will be neither a short nor a simple engagement, I'm sure you all know, but with your support and Naga's divine protection, we will emerge from it victorious and at peace once more. Are you all prepared to follow my command?"

The soldiers answered in the affirmative, some more vocally than others, but all were required to give their confirmation before being dismissed. When the troops were led away by Milan, who had taken quite felicitously to the position of lieutenant, Argos turned back and prepared to enter the castle for perhaps the final time before embarking, but he was halted by Larissa, who lingered still. "Is there something else?" he cocked an eyebrow at her, unable to mask his bafflement.

"No," she sighed, "I was just finalizing my decision."

"What decision is that?"

"Prince Argos... I'm not fond of my life in the convent. I've been protected there for a long time, but it was never my choice to remain there, it was always because I was forced to stay, because I would have nothing, otherwise. I want to leave that place, all the suffering and sadness behind, and see the world around me for what it is. And clearly, you need someone to help you express your ideas, so I must be of some use."

"I don't think I get what you're saying."

"I'm coming with you, Prince Argos."

"No you aren't; a battlefield is far too dangerous a place for a sheltered nun."

"Much like a prince who's been in a palace all his life."

"You grate on my nerves frequently, woman, you know that?"

"Likewise. You're too stubborn to listen to anyone but yourself, prince, and that's going to get you killed unless you have a cooler head at your side."

Argos clenched his fists and inhaled, "I... would really like to argue with you, but, then, I really wouldn't. I'm... not exactly sure what to think of you."

"Then think exactly as you feel in the moment," Larissa suggested.

Argos said nothing, but closed his eyes and folded his arms. After a few silent moments passed, he began to step forward again, walking past the young cleric, "Make certain you're ready to leave by tomorrow morning, because I won't wait around."

"Yes, milord," she curtseyed.

Argos proceeded past her into the palace.

[...]

The barracks weren't exactly cozy, but it couldn't be denied that they had a sort of... homey feel, even with dozens of other soldiers loudly chatting and walking all around the buildings, the well-fashioned oak wood walls lit by the warm orange glow of sunset certainly provided some comfort in an otherwise strange arrangement. Renard, however, was not feeling this comfort: he was not like the others here. The white-haired thief was not weak, but he was thin and wiry, not built with the musculature of most of the proud young men who surrounded him, and because he wasn't a woman, this fact meant that he was a pariah. Constantly, the recruits passed by eyeing him curiously, as though he were a rotting fruit at a market stand. This would have bothered Renard more if he had any respect for the young men so frequently examining him, or, at least, so he convinced himself to relieve the ceaseless irritation of their dumb, wide-eyed stares.

Caroline dropped a tray of food onto the table and projected a small smile at him as she grabbed a seat across from him. "H-Howdy," she announced with satisfaction. Renard said nothing. "W-W-What's wrong? Are y-you mad because everyone's looking at y-you funny?"

Renard scowled at his neighbor and shut his eyes with a sigh.

"D-Don't you want to t-talk? I doubt anyone else will l-listen if you do," the mercenary cautioned.

"I have nothing to say to you," he growled.

"W-Why's that?" she wondered.

"Because, you got me caught, you idiot!" the thief returned, "And now I'm going to war! Ugh... what a nightmare..."

"W-Well, you shouldn't have stolen to begin w-w-with," she mewled back, "so maybe you're the i-idiot."

"The point remains, I wouldn't be here if not for you," Renard shut his eyes again and leaned back.

"Are you h-hungry?" Caroline asked after a few seconds of silence.

"Oh, go away," the thief sighed, "I don't want to speak to you, don't you get it?"

"S-Sorry," she sniveled, "I only wanted to help, but... I guess I'll just go."

That satisfied Renard, and he cracked one eye open to watch her get up and leave, but saw a few of the men in the barracks turn their heads to do the same. Unnerved by this behavior, as well as the ethical codes of the men performing it, the snowy-haired thief went against his better judgment, "Er, Caroline?"

She turned and looked back, wordlessly.

"Actually, why don't you sit awhile?" he offered, looking around instead of at her to make sure his peers understood, "I think I would like a little something."

The mauve-haired mercenary didn't look the gift horse in the mouth: she marched back over and made herself comfortable, smiling at the thief once more. "What w-would you like?" she pointed to her tray.

"What do you like the least?" he offered in return.

She pondered for a minute, then murmured, "I was n-never much a fan of string beans..."

"Figures," the thief smirked, swiping a few from the tray and throwing one into his mouth.

Caroline plunged a spoon into her potatoes and swallowed the portion before looking back up, "S-So, I n-noticed you didn't ask ab-bout my... s-stutter."

"Hm?" Renard munched on another bean.

"Y-You know, the w-way I talk?" she frowned.

"Oh, right," the thief swallowed, "I guess I wasn't really paying attention. Something you wanted to talk about?"

"N-No, not really," her shoulders dipped slightly, "It's just... p-people usually ask me r-right away."

"Well, I leave it at your discretion," Renard shrugged, "I request that people don't ask me things I don't want to answer, and I expect them to do the same. Kind of the name of the game, in my line of work."

Caroline accepted this answer with a silent stare and went back to her dinner.

"Bleh, what a drab little sty," Serena remarked sleepily, drooping over the table a few rows across from Renard and Caroline.

"This 'drab little sty' is a base of operations, constructed by some of the most passionate carpenters in all Ylisse! Show some respect!" Nicholas chided her.

"To... wood?" she inquired, knocking on a support beam.

Nicholas frowned, "Yes, to wood, and people who built your accommodations, you ungrateful lout."

"Is the stick extra far up your ass today or what, Nick?" his partner giggled.

Nicholas applied his palm to his face and sighed wearily, "Never mind. I suppose no one could instill any respect in you."

"Not true," the emerald cavalier replied, "I have great respect for my old buddy Pinot."

"'Pinot' who?" Nicholas cocked an eyebrow.

"Pinot Grigio!" Serena laughed, smacking the table a few times as her comrade frowned again and folded his arms.

"You're going to be in serious trouble when you're chuckling on the battlefield and someone points an arrow at your guffawing little head," the ruby-clad knight chided, "And I won't be coming to help you then."

"Aw, you wound me, Nicky," she pouted, sticking out her bottom lip, "We've been buddies since our training days, haven't we? Are you really so much of a stickler that you'd let all that go?"

"If you're going to keep being stupid, yes," he grunted.

"C'mon, Nick," Serena's voice deepened, "you really think I don't get what's happening? We've trained together for years; I know what I'm doing, just like you, only difference is I like to keep it light."

"I wish I shared your penchant for inappropriate levity," he leaned onto the table.

Serena stuck her tongue out, "Fine, be that way. I'd save you, though, Nick. Even with what a drag you can be, you'd better believe I'd stick my neck out for my training buddy."

Nicholas received this news with a quick shift of his eyes. After a minute of silence, he lowered his head, then lifted it again and relented, "I guess I couldn't let you die either. Let's just try to stay out of that position, eh? ...Training buddy?"

Serena smiled broadly and forcibly shook her partner's hand, "That's the spirit! And speaking of spirits, is there anywhere in this dump a girl can get a stiff drink?"

Several of the men at nearby tables had their heads and ears perk up, but Nicholas cut them down with a glare, "I can't ever stop you from embarrassing us both, can I?"

"You can keep me quiet if you help me out."

[...]

The fires outside the barracks were beginning to burn low, but the minimal light was perfect for the conditions of this particular meeting. Larissa didn't want to be seen around the soldiers; if Argos knew she was involving herself so directly, he'd never bring her along, but in secret, she could aid the army however she chose. More significant than the rest of the army, however, was her friend and roommate: "Thanks for meeting me, Mel."

"Oh, no prob," she yawned, "I just wish you coulda asked a little earlier."

"Sorry, I have to keep this thing quiet," the cleric responded.

"I know," she put out her hands, "So, what's up?"

"I wanted to check on you, first of all," Larissa smiled, "Are you doing okay as a soldier?"

"I'm a little upset there aren't separate quarters for the ladies, but the guards do a good job of keeping things safe, so yeah, I'd say I'm doing all right," Melody answered.

"I was thinking more along the lines of training," her fellow nun returned.

"Oh," Melody thought, then shrugged, "I already know how to use a staff, so it was mostly just learning to ride a horse. That wasn't too bad either, though, mine's a real sweetie. I call 'er Honey."

Larissa breathed, bending her head, and smiled back up at her roommate, "That's really good to hear."

"Well, what about you?" the troubadour demanded, "How's the convent doing?"

Larissa pressed her fingers together and inhaled before answering, "I... I decided to leave the convent, Mel."

"Leave?" she shouted back before being shushed immediately, "And go where?"

"With you," Larissa beamed.

Melody cocked an eyebrow, "Listen, Larissa, I think of you as a really good friend, but I don't need you to tag along with me. I appreciate the gesture, but that's taking loyalty too far."

"No, I'm not going with you, specifically," the cleric clarified, "I'm being invited along by Prince Argos, to advise him and help morale."

A smirk crept up on the troubadour's face, "Is that what he told you? That boy is not hiding his intentions well."

"To be honest, I kind of roped him into it," Larissa admitted.

Melody's eyes widened in surprise and amusement, "Well... whatever works for you, I guess. Just be careful, okay? Call out to me if you get hurt; I'll be around."

"Thanks, Mel," the cleric smiled.

"You two ladies think you've talked enough yet?"

The pair jumped. Larissa was the first to find and recognize the source of the voice: "Wha-? Oh, you...! You're the priest from the sanctuary."

"And now I'm here. Funny, huh?" he asked in a manner that did not suggest humor.

"Can I help you with something?" Melody jeered, glaring at the eavesdropper.

"Maybe," he snickered, then pointed to Larissa, "You're up close to the big cheese, huh?"

"You can't blackmail me into influencing the prince, if that's your plan," Larissa declared defiantly.

The priest shook his head, "Nah... just good to know. Might be useful down the road."

"So, what are you doing here?" the troubadour insisted.

The priest shrugged, "Thought I'd keep an eye on my fellow bearers of the faith."

"Forgive me for saying so," Larissa broached, looking at him curiously, "but you don't seem the most... reverent of men."

He smiled, pointing one index finger at the cleric and touching the other to his nose, "Smart girl, I like that. Being a priest is my job. It's not a hobby, nor is it a lifestyle, it's just a job."

"And they let you work at the sanctuary with an attitude like that?" Melody railed.

"Honey, you don't seem to know what it really means to work in the sanctuary," the priest snickered.

"What are you saying... uh, you?" Larissa scratched the back of her neck.

"Name's Franco," the priest shot back, "and all I'm sayin' is you just have to play nice for the priests in the sanctuary to like you, that's all."

"Can you leave our conversation now, Franco?" Melody tapped her foot.

Franco shrugged, "I'm goin'. Just remember, ladies: things aren't always what they seem. I'll be around to discuss scripture, if you like."

The pair watched Franco dissolve back into the tent and waited a few more minutes for the silence of night to be covered by the calls of crickets and cicadas. "Well," Larissa exhaled, "I should probably get moving..."

The troubadour continued to scowl at the tent, "Dumb jerk. Anyway, yeah, don't stay out long enough to endanger yourself, Larissa."

"I won't," she nodded, "I just need to round up a few of my things. With any luck, I'll see you in the morning."

"'Till then," Melody smiled, "Good night."

"Night, Mel."

[...]

The castle was dark and empty, as was common enough in the evening, but down here, in the lower chamber, here it was exceptionally dark and lonely. A special type of isolation that gave one a proper feeling of reverence and awe, it was like being in the presence of a deity all its own, even though all that lie in the shadowy room were the sword and shield, powerless relics on their own. All the same, a certain implacable dread crept upon the shoulders of Prince Argos as he approached the glowing heirlooms in the pool of inky black that otherwise surrounded him. The items shimmered gold, as if calling out to the prince, and to place his hand upon the pommel of the legendary sword was a strange and ineffable kind of ecstasy, like the weapon was calling out to him, like the perfect place for the magical blade had always been braced against his palm. Unconsciously, a smile tore across his face as he lifted Falchion from its scabbard. It was only at this moment that he noticed a cerulean glow from within the blade, not unlike the shimmering shadow that had followed Naga.

From here, his father's voice echoed: "I want you to pay attention, Argos. The Falchion is one of the most important artifacts in all Ylisse. It was fashioned from the fang of Naga herself and communes with the exalted blood; anyone outside our bloodline attempting to use the sword will find it as dull as stone, which is why our blood is so valuable. Do you understand?" A shake of the head. Argos was led toward the blade. Not this Argos, the one who held it currently, but another, a shadow of what once was. Argos's face grew hot, tears stung his eyes, and then, all at once, a burning near his wrist. Falchion was stained red. "I know it hurts now, Argos," came his father's voice, "but this is a momentary pain, a small trade for the everlasting power it will grant you." A nod. He's led to the shield. "And this," booms Exalt Silas, "make no mistake, son, this shield is the key to having all one's desires realized. To invoke the power of the Fire Emblem is to make anything attainable, like granting a wish, but the wielder must grant the wish himself." A pause. Silence, reverent awe. "The only way to power it, however, is by inserting five magic gemstones, scattered all across the realm. My son, it is imperative that these gems..."

The vision falls apart. It is replaced with something else: a voice. Or many voices. It is impossible to tell. In this instant is the cacophony of a millennia gathered within one note. Is he still staring into the sword? Or does it stare into him?

"Argos, you are the scion of the royal bloodline, a Contractor. To wield the sword and shield is your destiny. Fight with them, fight with Naga, and slay your enemies."

"Argos, you are a god among men. Let any nation who dares oppose the sanctity of your reign be eroded to dust beneath your boot."

"Argos, you are bound by a covenant with Naga. Extirpate her enemies and ignite the fires of holy and almighty glory. Peace in your time is possible."

"Tell me, who is the Awakener?"

"The spirit of the Awakener is within you, Argos."

"Who is the Awakener?"

"He is within you, Argos."

"Who are you?"

"I am the blood."

"We are the Blood."

"We are Fate."

Sunlight streamed through the open doorway as Argos felt the darkness fading, his senses returning through a discomforting film. The prince shook his head violently to stir from his stupor until, at last, the world revealed itself to him. The light of the sun beat down. It glistened as it reflected off of the gold faces of Falchion and the Emblem, each now securely held on the prince's body.

More radiant than them both, however, was the crown that rested upon the prince's head, a brilliant sculpture of gold, wrought into the shape of the Mark of Naga at its crest, the same symbol that adorned the prince's chest. Now it sat above him, noticeable only in the additional weight it provided, wrapped all too naturally around his sapphire-wreathed head. The prince stepped out the door and into the blinding daylight, his new tools in hand.

There was a war to be won.


	6. Chapter VI

Chapter VI

The sounds of horses' hooves beating and tearing up the sod that was gradually degrading into sand assailed and filled his ears as they rode on. The night had been long and warm, the soporific blackness gripping the camp strongly and refusing to let go, but now the morning air was brisk and stung a bit at his cheeks, likely a result of its being too early for the sun to have struck the air for very long. Regardless, he couldn't be perturbed by such details, he now rode as the master of his men, and he would be damned if he would appear weak before them.

The envoy he had sent would have arrived the previous evening. He despised the concept; hadn't King Abdiel declared war clearly enough by murdering the exalt? To think that he might have to grace such filth with official documentation, as if there were anything civil about this conflict... it only made him angry, and hungry for a chance to express that anger. But the envoy's job was done, and so now he had no need to hold back. In response to this realization, there came an accompanying conflict: shadows were appearing over the horizon now: soldiers with blades and bows extended, plus mages flaunting their tomes, as well as the occasional cavalier.

He drew his men to a halt when his lieutenant called out to him. The prince brought his horse abreast of his dark-haired comrade, but continued to stare sidelong at the assemblage. "Something to say, Milan?" he offered.

Milan followed his lord's gaze, "I assume you see them."

"Of course," he assented, "Plegia's first response, no doubt."

"So then," his subordinate nodded, "what's our approach?"

"Approach?" Argos cocked an eyebrow, "We gut the dastards. I figured that was obvious."

"But how?" Milan posed, "Surely you don't think we can just charge them head-on and expect to win."

"Why not?" Argos smirked, "We've got enough troops, don't we?"

"Yes," his lieutenant grimaced, "but to waste their lives in such a way when that could be avoided is the plainest folly, milord."

"Ha!" the prince shrugged, "Nobody's life is going to be wasted: these Plegian dogs couldn't scratch us at their best."

"I wish I shared your confidence," Milan observed flatly.

Argos cracked his neck and his knuckles, dropping off his horse and smiling back at his comrade, "I can grant that wish."

"Milord..." his lieutenant hesitated, holding out a hand, "What are you doing?"

Too late. "Hey, you cactus munchers! Did your priss of a king send you? Come over here and I'll flatten you like the spineless cretins you are!"

Several of the waiting Plegians turned their heads and, after a moment, an unintelligible shout rose up in response to the prince's voice. After several more seconds, a hail of fireballs began to buffet the ground before the halted Ylisseans. Argos smiled as he shielded his eyes from the debris. "Is that the best you've got, you pissants?" He pointed Falchion at the crowd and took off running forward.

"Milord, wait!" Milan demanded; too late again, Argos was already several yards ahead. The prince dove into the group and slid his blade with ease across the chest of a mage. A mercenary swung at his back, but he pivoted and blocked it, kicking his assailant and finishing him with a quick stab to the gut. He hacked apart a few approaching dark mages in a similar fashion. Milan grimaced as he watched, then shouted to the assembled forces beside him, "Don't just stand there, attack! Support your lord!" Upon command, the cavaliers darted forward first. Several infantry at a time were swept up by Nicholas's lance, and none had enough time to develop a counter to Serena's thunderous run-and-strike technique.

Milan himself was also forced to join the fray, batting Plegians aside with broad strokes of his sword in an effort to keep pace with Argos, who twirled around in the amalgamation of his foes like a swimmer thrown into a pool, parrying and countering easily. The black-haired lieutenant tried to ensure that he never lost sight of the prince, although the Plegians occasionally made that a nuisance.

"C-Come on," the mauve-haired girl tried to drag her companion, "We have to g-get in there and h-help."

"He seems to be doing fine," the thief shook his head.

"But y-you promised! W-We ha-ha-have to serve P-Prince Argos!" she argued.

"I'll serve him better by not getting killed for no reason on day one," the man's snowy hair ruffled as he resisted.

Caroline hung her head, "F-Fine. I'm going in, though." Without a further word, the mercenary entered the battle and matched blades with a Plegian soldier, meeting their strikes until she overcame him and brought him down. She stabbed two mages in the back as they prepared to attack Argos, and, feeling proud of herself, slid in to go after an axe-wielder who was bearing down on Nicholas. In pursuing him, however, she failed to notice a dark mage who was staring at her back and flipping open his tome.

"Oh, for the love of..." Renard rolled his eyes. Summoning strength to his legs, he rushed to the spot, hopped up to make up the distance, and landed by hooking his left arm around the mage and his legs around his torso. His right arm plunged a dagger into the magic-user's throat, after which the thief released the hold and let the body slump to the ground "Watch your back, girly!" Renard shouted. She was too busy sizing up the cavalier, who sped toward her, lance bearing down and aiming straight at her. Caroline lined up her sword, getting ready, but at the last moment, she was pulled out of the cavalier's path. "What are you doing?!" Renard chided.

"I w-was fighting that c-c-cavalier! I h-had him right in p-place until you p-pulled me!" she seemed angry for the first time.

"You were going to die!" the thief shook his head again. Hooves beat as the cavalier circled around and leered at them, pointing his lance angrily. Renard put his arm in front of the mauve-haired mercenary, both to protect her and keep her from coming forward again. As the horseman drew close, the thief, grabbed Caroline and sidestepped the charge, then, in a manner more practiced than he cared to admit, snagged his free hand on the horse's rein on the exposed side, letting the girl go. The thief brought his feet up with the momentum of the horse, then sprang up and pulled its rider down, causing him to crumple with a thud into a pile of dust and sod. When he was clear, Renard drew the horse to a halt, sprang off, and sidled over to the horseman and planted his knife in his throat.

Caroline paused, moving a lock of hair out of her face in time to see Renard rise, "Oh. Th-Thank you."

The thief frowned, then sighed, "Sure. Keep your head up."

A nervous knight was the last to approach, not counting the healers, holding his lance delicately. He rode uncertainly into the fray, and as he approached, several barbarians eyed him up and raised their axes. When they charged, his horse reared and threw Frederick to the dirt, leaving him completely exposed, spread-eagle in the sod. The barbarians wasted no time in encircling the fallen soldiers.

One of them was speared by a javelin, pinning his body to the ground after it impaled his chest. The others turned their heads, and two were knocked aside by broad swings of a sword, scattering the two who remained. As Frederick glanced aside, he found Milan descending his horse and extending a hand, which the young knight then took. "Watch yourself, son. If you're not confident, your steed will feel it," the lieutenant lectured as he brought Frederick to his feet.

"Y-Yes sir," the young man answered simply. He faced his horse and cast an evaluative eye against it. Satisfied with the horse's response, he sighed and saddled back up.

Larissa caught up to Argos first, as he took his first pause in the action, halting to wipe a smear of blood off of his brow. When she saw his face, the cleric shrieked, "Are you hurt?"

"Not in the least," he smirked, "As if these cowardly scum could possibly harm me!"

"Are you crazy?!" she chided, "Those are real soldiers with real weapons over there! If you make one mistake, you could be dead!"

He shrugged, "I'll just have to try not to make any mistakes, then."

"Listen," she demanded, but before the blonde cleric could communicate the remainder of her response, Argos had rushed forward again.

"Have the gall to kill my parents and then stand here, blocking us like you own the place?" he shouted into their faces as he tore another soldier apart, "I'll crush you all!"

Larissa sighed heavily, watching him with apprehension. "He's a big blue ball of fire, isn't he?" Melody chimed in as her horse trotted alongside her comrade.

"He's an idiot," she shook her head, "at best. Either that, or he's just plain crazy."

"Sometimes crazy gets results," observed the troubadour, "I mean, looking at that, I can't help but feel good about our odds." As she spoke, the prince blocked an incoming lance and stabbed its owner cleanly in the stomach before kicking him gracelessly off of Falchion.

"That doesn't mean we'll do well against every foe we face," Larissa pouted, "I mean, this is just a cursory test King Abdiel is putting out, judging our strength so he knows what to expect and how to counter."

"How do you know that?" Melody cocked an eyebrow.

Her companion shrugged, "It's pretty obvious, isn't it? Clearly this isn't exactly King Abdiel's royal guard we're fighting." A dismembered arm landed several feet away with a sickening "splat."

"No doubting that," Melody observed, "Well, sorry. I'm sure you're thinking about him enough as it is."

"No kidding," Larissa agreed. When her comrade giggled, she turned around, but the troubadour had already galloped off.

"We about done?" Serena smacked a barbarian in the face with the blunt end of her sword without looking, "My arms are getting tired."

"Maybe if you participated in exercises, you'd be less winded," Nicholas lamented, suddenly noticing the disappearance of enemy forces.

"Well, if all of Abdiels boys are this easy to kick, it'll be a short war," she chuckled, digging into her saddlebag for a flask.

"Unlikely," her partner answered gravely, "These were just peons. We'll have to be prepared for enemies far stronger in the future."

"But there'll probably be fewer head-on sudden conflicts like this, yeah?" the cavalier took a swig.

Nicholas nodded, "That would be preferable."

An out-of-breath and huffing voice called to them, "H-Hey guys! I made it! Where... where's the enemy?"

"Taken care of, rookie," Nicholas cut a glare at the brown-haired man whose horse ambled up to them.

"Already?" he frowned, "I just got one or two, I figured there had to be at least a dozen or so left on this side..."

"Work on your technique, fresh meat," Nicholas scoffed, "and maybe you'll get a chance to work with the pros."

"Aw, don't be too hard on the newbie," Serena cooed, "There was a time when we were just recruits, too, Nicky. Poor kid probably just took the kettle off his head and saddled up the other day, huh?"

"N-No!" argued Frederick, gritting his teeth, "I come from a well-respected ville, and I've been training for years."

"Not with the Royal Academy of Ylissean Knights, you haven't," the redheaded knight folded his arms.

"Maybe you'd be willing to help me, then?" the young knight blushed.

Nicholas scoffed again, "I don't have time to babysit untrained kids in over their heads."

"Easy, Nick," Serena nudged, "Maybe just watch and learn, kiddo. Above all, just keep trying and you'll figure things out on your own eventually."

"You think so?" Frederick glanced at his gloved hand.

"Sure," the emerald-haired woman nodded, "some of the best knights I know weren't formally trained. It's the desire to be the best that makes you the best."

"But a little proper training never hurt," Nicholas glared at his companion, "Come away, Serena, we have to see to Prince Argos."

Frederick mulled the cavaliers' words over for several seconds as they departed. When he realized he could no longer hear the clopping of their horses' hooves, he jolted himself back to reality and spurred his own horse into action.

The last archer flopped down as Argos withdrew Falchion, cleaning the shimmering blade by wiping the spatters and streaks of blood onto his sleeve, disguising the stains with its dark color. "Are you regretting your rashness at all yet?" Larissa demanded as she strode over.

Argos chuckled and cocked an eyebrow at her, "No, why would I be?" She pointed to a rather large and apparent scarlet gash along his arm. It was trickling and spreading quickly down the limb and dripping into the open field. Similar slits and slices appeared along his non-dominant forearm, face, and presented themselves through tears in the un-armored sections of his chest. Seeing them, the prince's eyes widened slightly, "Huh. Lookit that." No sooner had he said as much then the young man collapsed upon himself. Larissa became distressed straight away, readying her staff and rushing over to him, but a pair of slow footsteps distracted her.

"Don't worry," the calm expression of Milan assured her, "he'll be fine. Fix that ugly cut first, then you can take your time on the smaller wounds."

"He's... bleeding everywhere, and..." she protested.

"Quite. That's not really appropriate for a prince, is it?" his lieutenant thought aloud, "Ask that troubadour friend of yours to get some wet rags and clean him up. Bring him back to the tent when you're done, I'll need to have some words with him."

"But what if he doesn't want..." she began.

"I'm his lieutenant," Milan raised his hand, "So did he appoint me. That means when he isn't around to give orders, I give them in his stead. Are there any further questions, miss?"

"No, sir," the cleric sighed. She looked over the collapsed, bloodied form of the prince and couldn't stop herself from thinking of what an imbecile he had been. And how glad she was that the wound wasn't any more serious.

[...]

The palace walls had become dark due to their reduced occupation. It was amazing how much more peaceful the place could be in the absence of the usual shouting and absurdity. This was a different day for the palace, a new day, a brighter day. The world was on the path toward change at long last, the future was open and set into motion, and all it had taken was one tiny motivating act. One very necessary and precise strike, and now the cogs were finally beginning to turn.

"I understand that the prince made contact today."

"Already? You seem to have gotten that news rather quickly."

A laugh, "You know the extent of our resources. Nothing the prince does will escape our eyes."

"Indeed. So, Plegian blood has been spilt?"

"Quite so. A rather large quantity."

"Then there is no need for further provocation. Things will proceed precisely as planned."

"Prince Argos fulfills his role so nicely. Not like his dastard of a father, ever the diplomat, except when it was convenient for him."

"Exalt Silas was a stubborn ox of a man, no doubt, but he served his purpose well enough in the end. Hopefully, he now rests peacefully, and can enjoy from on high the actions of his son which will soon reunite them."

"Is it time, then? Do I begin to spread the word?"

"No, wait until the prince is deeper into Plegia. Only then will our maneuver have its greatest impact."

"As you command."

The other man drew forward, bowing. They nodded to one another simultaneously, "May Fate forever guide us."

[...]

When King Abdiel sat upon his throne once more, he did so more heavily than he could recall in the entirety of his reign. Granted, that hadn't been long, but the sensation was no less haunting. He had ordered their killing, even if he hadn't wrought it himself. The blood would stain his hands, as well as the blood of all his countrymen who would fall in the coming conflict. But that couldn't be helped, it was all necessary. In taking apart their pretentious northern neighbors, Plegian could cease to be a slave to its droughts, and its people could live outside the realm of poverty and desperation once more. For this, no price was too dear. King Abdiel knew this, and so, he prayed, did his subjects. More than anything, however, this was a phenomenal power play for the Grimleal as well as the king. Abdiel could save his people, be their hero, and the Grimleal practitioners could explain that it had been the king's faith that allowed him to prevail. Abdiel didn't care what the priests wanted to say, and he was Grimleal himself, so the potential benefits were obvious and unfettered.

But still, it was not easy to consume two lives, and countless others as a result. Perhaps Queen Cercueta had sensed this, and perhaps it was why she chose to confront her husband at that moment. Or, perhaps it was simply because she hadn't seen him in a few days. "Something seems to weigh upon you, my king," she observed politely.

The king looked to his wife. She was mature in her appearance; her face was not old, but it was marked with the certitude of years, not soft with the inexperience of young women. The face was sharp with direction, but still accommodating, and not wrinkled or stretched very much all the same. She had snow-white hair and mesmerizing azure eyes, all of which distinguished her as a very unique individual, so unlike the members of the court that the king had salvaged from his predecessor. They had complained about him marrying the mistress of some tiny village, but that didn't affect him; if anyone complained about him publicly, they would be lynched before sunset. "I do not look forward to the task before me," King Abdiel conceded.

"Then why did you undertake it in the first place?" demanded his queen.

"Now, don't be so difficult," he answered, "You know I have every confidence that my works can protect our home."

"I do," she nodded, "I only wish you'd be decisive about it. Be firm in your resolve; our kingdom will be saved by this action. There is no harm in spilling heretic Ylissean blood to achieve such a cause."

"It's not the potential loss of Ylissean life that disturbs me, it's the potential for our own to be vanquished," Abdiel responded.

"Necessary sacrifices, too. You worry too much, dear," Cercueta assured him.

The king glanced into a darkened corner of the palace, "I'm certain you're right, of course... Something about all this simply puts me ill at ease."

"Maybe your new position as a father is the root cause," the queen guessed.

"It's hardly new..." he began to respond.

"All the same," she smiled and chuckled a bit, "You haven't been the same man ever since our little boy joined these halls."

"How can I be?" he sighed contentedly, "I've an entirely new motivation for my life now."

"I think he's undergoing his studies in the courtyard, if you'd like to pay him a visit," his wife patted his knee.

King Abdiel nodded and rose from his throne, stepping out into the halls and dragging his long cape behind him. He stepped out into the dry, arid heat of the Plegian desert, shielding his eyes from the sun for a moment before proceeding, finding his son at a small oaken table to the east end of the courtyard, seated with his tutor. "Pardon me," the king excused himself, interrupting the lesson.

The tutor quickly shut his mouth, "No, pardon me. Can I help Your Majesty?"

"I only wanted to see how our little prince is faring with his work," the king smiled, patting his son's maroon hair, the same as his own.

"Father," the toddler grumbled, "don't talk about me like that!"

"Apologies," he lied, "and how are you doing, Gangrel?"

"Just fine," the boy answered curtly.

The tutor's expression disagreed, prompting Abdiel to bid him speak, "Well, sir, young master Gangrel is not always willing to participate in his lessons."

"What do I have to gain from staring down every little word in some dusty book?" he scoffed, "Tell me about wars and how to win them. That's what makes a powerful king, isn't that right, father?"

"Sometimes power is only half the equation, son," Abdiel answered, "You have to make sure your people trust and respect you, too. If you can't show you care for your subjects through lawmaking and diplomacy, no one will ever listen to you. That's why Plegia's old king was deposed: he was fattened with greed and power, but never once lent an ear to his own people, and so they threw him out on his arse."

Gangrel laughed at that, "I guess so. Still, you think if you had the most powerful army in the world, everybody would have to listen to you anyway, right?"

"Ah," Abdiel knelt to the sand, stroking Gangrel's hair, "but armies are made up of people too, aren't they? What if the people in your army don't like you? Then all your power is gone."

"They should learn to follow orders," Gangrel rebutted, "They're soldiers, they're suppose to fight, not think. The king does the thinking."

The king gave up and stood, sighing, patting his son on the back, "Boring as they may be, try to trudge your way through a few more of those books, and you may see what I mean."

"Yes, father," Gangrel sighed.

"And," this time Abdiel glanced at the tutor as well, "when you're ready to take a break, your mother made a lovely stew for lunch." Gangrel smiled and licked his lips.

[...]

When Argos's eyes were stung by light once more, it was the faded amber of sunset that streamed through the opened flap to the medical tent, and it was partially eclipsed by the black hair of his lieutenant, who was glaring down at him sternly, arms folded. When Milan saw his prince's eyes open and fill with consciousness, he shook his head and sighed, "That was a damned stupid thing you did, Prince Argos."

"We won, didn't we?" the prince coughed, trying, and failing to move his sore, throbbing arm.

"We did," Milan noted, "Against a paltry resistance that could have easily been set aside by even the most basic of our troops. But due to your eagerness, you and some of your accompaniment were injured during this battle, meaning it's going to take us additional time to prepare to combat the Plegians. We'll have to hold off crossing the border for a few days, at least, depending on how that arm of yours heals."

"Nonsense," the prince rebutted, "the troops can carry on without me."

"No, they quite literally cannot," Milan responded, "You're their commander-in-chief, and the only one many of them are willing to serve. If you don't deliver the orders, more than half our army will refuse to move."

Argos laughed, "Loyal to a fault, are they?"

Milan frowned, "I wish you'd take this more seriously. I'm just a man in your employ, Prince Argos, so I can't tell you what to do, but I must suggest that you be more careful about how you conduct yourself in the future. A war, a real war, full of small engagements that flesh out a greater conflict, requires strategy and careful planning. No one can match you for bravery, that's so, but there is no way this fight will be won on the hardness of our heads alone."

Using his other arm, Argos grasped the edge of his cot and sat up, "Point taken. ...Point taken. I'm a stubborn mule, Milan, you seem to have figured that out. I just can't bear the thought of sitting on my hands rather than sticking it to these gutless cretins."

"I understand your anger completely, milord, but vengeance won't be very satisfying if you die a hundred miles from Abdiel's throne, will it?" answered the former guardsman.

"True enough," Argos smiled bitterly, "All right. I won't put myself out as much. But I will kill any rotten Plegian that gets in my face, and I will make King Abdiel choke on Falchion."

"To that, I make no objections," Milan sighed.

"Is he awake?" demanded a soft voice from just outside the tent.

"Ah, yes," Milan rose, yielding his place to Larissa as she sidled in, "You have another visitor. I'll allow you your privacy."

"Well..." Argos leered at the blonde cleric as she knit her brow and widened her eyes at him, "First day out. What do you think?"

"I think you might have been safer if you'd died today," she quipped.

"You mean you weren't impressed?" he smirked, shrugging.

"By your being coated in bodily fluids and collapsing into a puddle at the battle's end?" Larissa recounted, "No, not particularly."

"You're a hard woman to please," he sighed.

"Well you've an equally hard head," she rebutted.

After a pause, the prince grasped his wounded arm, feeling along the scar left by the cut, "You did a fine job fixing this. That was a gusher, no doubt. Nothing like training blade and rapier bruises."

"Any soreness?" her tone shifted and her voice dropped an octave.

"Some," he flailed it limply, wincing, "It's hard to move, at present."

"You managed to damage it pretty well. It's going to take a few days," the cleric observed, sliding a bit closer to trace her handiwork.

"I'm not waiting," he shook his head.

"But it's not-"

"I don't care. The men have to move forward, we have to use the advantage of timing that we have, or this campaign will be dead before it takes its first breath," Argos balled his fist, "I won't fight, I promise you that, but we have to keep moving forward, or we're doomed."

Resistance pooled on Larissa's tongue, but she felt it drop as she opened her mouth, "I... I guess I can see the logic to that... But... but you have to stay away from battle."

"I said I would," he repeated. When Larissa nodded the prince exhaled and added, "Knowing how some of these cupcakes operate, they'll want me to have some kind of attending healer... Do you think that's something you'd care to do?"

"Well," the blonde mused, "I did force the issue of coming along... I guess I have no right to refuse."

The sapphire eyes of the prince softened, "No, you do. You have every right. I'm not coercing, I'm only asking. If you're sick of my stupidity, you can tell me as much right now. I'm not like the type of self-aggrandizing peacocks my father kept at court."

"You are undoubtedly stupid," Larissa pointed out, "but you're also honest. Honest, and empathetic. That's why so many of these soldiers came out to support you: you're not just 'a royal,' you're not just 'Exalt Sila's son...' You're a very different man. And, for better or for worse, that's the reason why I can't seem to pull myself away from you."

The prince was blushing at this point, "That's a very kind soliloquy, Sister Larissa, but it's too much. Although, I am interested by that last bit: would you say you find me... captivating?" This last remark was made with a smirk.

She returned his jest, "No. But in response to your earlier question, yes. I'm happy to stand beside you and see to your medical needs."

"That would be very much welcome," Argos bowed, "Thank you, Sister Larissa."

"Just 'Larissa,' please," she insisted, "I left the convent." He nodded and tapped on his forehead. Larissa lingered a moment longer, and when the prince's eyes questioned her, she piped up, "Am I dismissed?"

The sapphire-haired lord was confused by the question, but waved his hand, "Er, yes. You're dismissed. Thank you."

"You're welcome, milord," she sauntered out. He watched with perplexity.


	7. Chapter VII

Chapter VII

The days that followed Prince Argos's first contact with Plegia were marked by uncertainty and untold bravery. Or, at least, that is how notes taken by many amateur battlefield commanders who had never controlled a group of men in their lives would go on to describe it. Following the surprise attack, Prince Argos and his personal detail sank into the center of Ylisse's advancing army, allowing newer recruits to make up the front of the offense. Phila's Pegasus Knights were among the frontrunners, and made spectacular shows of their impressive and rigorous training in dispatching with minor threats quickly as the Ylissean line gradually moved forward. Backed by the undying passion of youth, the budding Ylissean army seemed unstoppable.

Their slight delay had given King Abdiel time to prepare, however: he distracted the mostly unguided rage of Argos's advance by throwing small collections of troops at him, much like the first engagement, to sate the army's appetite for battle while preparing a counteroffensive that he felt was sure to crush the feisty Ylissean prince. In order for his plan to succeed, the king deemed it necessary to bring the Ylisseans to some sort of focal point, to show them a moral victory in the making, and then snatch it from their jaws when success seemed the most attainable, for certainly that would dismiss the wind that currently blew at their backs.

This decision coincided perfectly with the Ylissean's movements: at the urging of some of the few existing experienced Ylissean generals, the army was guided to a relatively large Plegian city about a third of the way between its northernmost border and Plegia Castle in order to establish supply lines to keep the men fed and adequately equipped. The town was, unfortunately, well-defended, due to an ominous pewter tower that stood in its center. From here, dedicated scouts watched over the city, called Byuma, and sent signal fires to warn groups of volunteer and professional soldiers into action. The element of surprise was seemingly out of the question. With that decided, it was suggested that if a small team of troops could enter the tower discreetly and eliminate those operating within, that team could misdirect the remaining enemies and allow the Ylisseans to overtake them easily. The bulk of the Ylissean force would simply engage the defenders all around the city to keep their attention elsewhere in the meantime.

With the plan set, it came as no surprise to the troops who volunteered to strike at the tower, although Milan protested it profusely. With his arm substantially healed from his first engagement, an impatient Prince Argos was more than ready to put his feet on the battleground and make a strike against the Plegians. Eventually, his lieutenant relented, seeing the massive potential in such a moral victory, and agreed on the condition that he would follow his liege into the fray, only sans horse this time, for logistical reasons; Frederick, Serena, Nicholas, and Melody were all forced to do the same.

And so, the stage was set, the desert air warmed as the day began to flare up, and the blinding sunlight glinted off of shields, helmets, and armor as the Ylissean army marched in a circle around Byuma, prompting the ignition of a massive orange fireball upon the tower, which ignited several tributary flames to announce the city was under siege. Troops met on the ground, and Phila's Pegasus Knights swung down from above as the roads grew vociferous. Meanwhile, inside and around the tower, a surprise in anticipation of this tactic had been prepared for the Ylisseans...

"Push past them!" Argos commanded, smashing his shield into another. The Plegians were tough, but they were unprepared, making the man-to-man fighting a little simpler. Disorder made weak units easy prey.

"Trying!" an exasperated Serena grumbled, smacking at a foe with her sword.

Milan surprised her as he leapt forward and decapitated him, "Come on, we need to move." She blinked, but shortly complied. When past the wall of fighters, she cheerfully greeted Nicholas, who was waiting for her.

Similarly, Renard cleared the slamming masses with ease, nimbly skipping around the spears and swords and hulking suits of armor smashing into each other until he ended up on the other side. He turned around, however, and tackled a few soldiers who were restraining Caroline, hurrying the mauve-haired girl with rolls of his eyes as he cut their throats open. Somehow—and no one saw to report on it—Frederick managed to stumble his way out of the conflict as well, hair in disarray and teeth chattering, but alive.

When the group began to run toward the tower, pegasus knights flocked overhead and settled behind them, dropping off the trio of healers left behind in the fighting. Franco smiled at the orange-haired young woman transporting him as he hopped off, "Thanks for the lift, lass. What are you doing after this invasion, huh?"

"Godssakes, you're a priest!" she chided him.

"And my duty is to provide spiritual healing," he concurred, "I promise, I got the cure for what ails ya."

"You're disgusting," she told him, commanding her pegasus to rise.

"How 'bout a name, sweetheart?" he shouted after her.

"Not a chance!"

"Irene, today!" the woman in front of her on an armored pegasus shouted.

"Dammit, sarge!" she complained, taking flight.

"What was that?"

"Nothing ma'am!"

Franco continued to grin, earning him disapproving scowls from both of his female companions. All three had their attention recovered by Argos, who demanded, "Don't just stand there, let's get to the gods-damn tower, already!" They complied, all of the troops rushing behind Argos as he sprinted toward the tower, past any resistance that might have been offered by the soldiers now fighting around every wall in the city. When they approached the tower, a group of four archers, one facing each corner of the city, spun around to take aim at them, but were quickly silenced by some well thrown javelins from Serena and Nicholas and quick strikes by Argos and Caroline. Renard was brought forward to pick the lock on the door, and when the metal clicked loudly and slumped into the packed sand, Argos kicked the twin doors open and led his men inside: this offensive was in full swing.

[...]

"Rrragggh!" A young blue-haired man pumped his fists into the air. His periwinkle locks fell about his face as he shouted.

"Hey!" he heard the voice of his commander, "Keep it down! What are you, an idiot? Do you want the enemy to discover us and ruin our strategy?"

"No, sir," he shrunk. A few of the other mages laughed at him. He didn't care; he couldn't stand this stupid waiting. He wanted revenge on those dirty Ylisseans! How could he or any other man be expected to sit and wait quietly while the men responsible for killing his sister marched up the tower and killed even more Plegians? It was totally unfair! He was the only one with a vendetta, and yet he was stuck waiting around with these bookworms and glasses-adjusting types... It was enough to make the poor young man sick. He pledged he would do something at the first available opportunity to make those damn Ylisseans pay!

Outside the tower, and well out of this young man's—or any person within the tower's—earshot, the first step of the counteroffensive had been triggered: the Ylisseans were in the building, as one scout reported to his commander. The delight could not be removed from said commander's face when he discovered Prince Argos was among his visitors. "What orders shall I give, Captain Hatir?" asked the scout on finishing his report.

The man stroked some of the wine-colored hair out of his face and smiled, "Tell the tower guard to proceed as normal, we need our little performance to be convincing. In order to maximize our effectiveness, we have to draw the Ylisseans in closer, particularly their beloved Pegasus Knights. Tell the ground troops to redouble their efforts now: I don't want a single man passing into the town on foot, only by air. We'll let the Ylisseans climb a few floors and wear themselves out, then spring the mages."

"And you, sir?"

"Well, don't be silly: then I'll take my boys to the air, too. And then, we'll watch feathers and hopes rain from the sky! Ahahahaha!"

The scout blinked, then sprang into action when the captain glared at him, apparently finished with his mirth.

[...]

Several lance-wielding soldiers blocked the entrance to the tower, but Argos and his troops made quick work of this meager barricade. When those troops were defeated, Argos and company scaled the first staircase of the tower leading to the next floor and were met with a more sizable crowd of Plegians. "Nothing's ever easy," Argos sighed to himself, "Attack!"

The trio of horse-less cavaliers met with several swordsman at the front of the room, while Caroline and Argos went around the outside to strike at a few dark mages and archers who were hiding along the shadows of the walls. Renard was prepared to follow one of them when he became distracted by a glow from a corner of the room: a chest. One with a shiny gold lock. He'd recognize that kind of alluring prize anywhere. Chuckling to himself and flexing his hands through his black leather gloves, the thief became a snow-white blur as he sprinted over to the mark, leaving Melody and Franco (Larissa's attention stayed elsewhere) to watch him with suspicion. Easy, a real shoddy, sorry-looking lock, the thief grinned to himself. He applied a little pressure with his pick until he felt the spot just right and forced it, hearing the drop he was listening for. He flung the lock off and found gold inside. He began happily shoving the treasure into his pockets until he discovered another yellow object covered by the money: a tome. At least, so the thief assumed, because it wasn't just a book, it was full of a bunch of unreadable symbols. He stuffed the item into a big bag, assuming he could sell it for some value later. Afterward, he continued to shovel gold into his pockets.

Frederick impaled a foe with his lance, then turned around as he felt wind slap against his back, fearing the worst. His fears were proven correct as a sword glinted in his direction, but it was blocked by a timely intervention from the prince, who batted the blade out of the aggressor's hand and stabbed him quickly thereafter. "Heads up, kid!" his commander shouted.

"Yessir!" Frederick nodded and turned back, spearing another enemy. He saw Caroline trying to move up but being overwhelmed by a trio of knights who were menacingly thrusting lances in her direction and ran toward them, sweeping out the legs of one and impaling him, and then going toe-to-toe with a second, matching the swinging of the opposing knight's lance until he could knock him over, too, with a fierce shove. The brown-haired knight finished his enemy off just in time to see the mauve-haired girl doing the same.

"T-Thank you, sir," she bowed courteously.

"Not at all," Frederick smiled sunnily.

"You two!" they heard Argos's voice beckon from the end of the room and spun around, "We don't have time to waste congratulating each other. Pull yourselves together and come on!" They nodded and ran after the prince.

Milan ran a few steps back into the room, seeing the white cloaks of the clergy bringing up the rear of the "discreet" invasive force. "That means you, thief!" he called out. Renard, still piling gold into his pockets, rose and frowned, but ran after the lieutenant anyway, well aware of the punishment for failing to obey. The stairs seemed to grow longer as the group charged up, and there were more soldiers waiting at the next level each time. All of the party, Argos included, quickly began to wonder how much longer their arrival at the top would be delayed.

[...]

"Sir," a young Plegian saluted, his onyx armor rattling a bit as he walked up to face his commander.

"They've progressed?" the captain gleaned.

"Just so," nodded the young man, "Will we move on to the next phase of preparations, then, sir?"

"Yes," he nodded, "get the prisoners, and take care you aren't seen. I'll have five of my men accompany you, that should be plenty. Bring them out here quickly, or you'll suffer, understand?"

"Absolutely," the man swallowed as he saluted again.

"Off with you, then," his commander dismissed. He waved and pointed his finger to direct five of his subordinates to follow the man now shrinking across the horizon. The remaining group were told to lower their heads as the sounds of wings beat above them. Most of the soldiers tried to look busy or panicked, flailing about and responding to imaginary orders to retreat to different parts of the city. When the threat passed over, the captain and his men lifted their heads again, smiling and, in his case, cackling.

Back inside the tower, on the relatively narrow basement of the sixth of seven floors was packed full of mages, all bearing wind tomes, which they gripped nervously as the sound of footsteps continued to echo less and less softly around the trapdoor to their chamber. They had to be perfect in their timing: too late, and the attacking Ylisseans might still retain something of an advantage or, at least, numbers alone wouldn't provide a significant disadvantage; too early, and the mages would be slaughtered like the rest of their comrades waiting below and directly above. One periwinkle-haired mage in particular was still having a hard time exercising that patience: he listened intently to the Ylisseans' footsteps, drooling more and more for the opportunity, feeling anticipation swell in his chest until, at long last, a door creaked open. A shaft of light shot into the room, but none of the others seemed to notice. Typical, the young man snorted, none of these idiots were paying attention, he was the only one who cared. He ventured toward the light not alerting any of his companions because it wasn't worth it; he wanted to bring down the threat himself, _then_ they'd see! A face appeared from behind the door, also apparently attempting to be silent.

The young mage was so shocked by the green eyes that met his he simply muttered, "Uh... hello?"

The green eyes blinked. The mage now realized they were beneath a wealth of white hair, "Oh, uh... good morrow. Are you... are these...?"

"Soldiers?" said the mage with a bit of pride, "Yes. ...Are you Ylissean?"

"Me?" the white-haired man's green eyes widened, "Oh, no. Can't you see?" He gestured to his vestments to convince the greeter, "I'm but a simple thief. Are there Ylisseans about?"

"Quite so," the mage nodded gravely, "they're storming the tower this very instant."

"Imagine that," said the thief.

"Look, you'll want to get out of here, fellow," the mage suggested, "lest you get caught in the fighting. That wouldn't be very good, hey?"

"No, not at all," the thief concurred, "Well, you're a helpful chap. What's your name, so I can return the favor a little later?"

"Oswald, sir," he beamed, "Though I go by Ozzy most of the time. Proud Plegian mage since three months ago."

"I'm much obliged, Ozzy," the thief shook his hand, "My name's Renard, so you know when I'm back to pay my debt... by the by... did you say you're Plegian soldiers?"

"That's correct," Ozzy nodded, "We're going to spring a trap on those sister-murdering Ylisseans when they get to this floor."

"Clever," Renard smiled, then changed his tone, "Why do you call them 'sister-murdering,' if I may?"

"Ain't it obvious?" he cocked an eyebrow, "Those dastards murdered my sister!"

"I see... most unkind of them," the thief nodded, "And your sister's name?"

"Tatiana, but why, sir?" Ozzy wondered.

"So I can assist you in your vengeance, my boy," Renard answered.

"Oh," he smiled, "jolly good."

Renard exhaled, "Well, you've been quite a helpful lad. I'll be sure to help you out when I can. I'll shove off now, thank you very much."

"Not at all," the mage smiled as the door closed.

"Dullard," the thief sighed to himself when the door was shut. He hurried up the small staircase to rejoin the group.

"What a charming fellow," Ozzy smiled, drifting back among the waiting mages. Their trap would be ready any moment now...

[...]

"Prince Argos!" the thief blurted halfway up the stairs, "Don't go any further!"

He heard the prince and his detail slow to a stop and found them spun around, looking in his direction when he mounted the stairs, "What is it, thief?"

"I have a name, you know," the white-haired man sighed.

"Out with it," his commander ordered.

"Right," Renard shrugged, "Listen, I just emerged from the basement of this floor—"

"You mean the floor below it?" Larissa cocked an eyebrow.

"No, I mean there's a secret compartment in the floor of this level! Just listen! A whole platoon of mages is down there, waiting to spring us when we wear out. We should turn back," said the thief.

"Turn back?" Argos scoffed, "Are you daft? We've come this far to take control of the tower, I'm not going to be afraid of some little ploy by a bunch of sand-shoes."

"Milord," Milan grabbed his attention, "Loath though I am to say as much, I believe I must concur with our friend's assessment: we cannot risk being trapped and overpowered."

"We won't be," the prince grunted back, shoving ahead.

"Listen to reason, for once!" his subordinate shouted, seizing his hand, "We can still take the damn tower, let's just not give them the chance to get the drop on us. We've cleared nearly the entire tower, so why don't we just leave the simpletons in here, have the pegasus knights clear the top, wrap up the battle, and then have the tricky little snakes surrounded?"

Argos frowned and cupped his chin, "I guess... When you put it that way, I can hardly argue. But let's not dally, eh?"

"Of course not," Milan nodded. With a wave of his hand, Argos led his band down the long staircase once more to communicate with their own troops.

Unfortunately, this was the same instant in which a scout reported to Captain Hatir, informing him that the Ylisseans had been spotted on the penultimate floor of the tower. "Excellent," he concluded, "then they'll be easily devastated." He turned behind himself to see three columns of archers lined up before two dozen of Plegia's finest wyvern riders, each of which had a young woman bound to one of the wyvern's legs by a rope; things were proceeding exactly as planned. "Men, to your positions!" the captain ordered, rousing his own wyvern so that it fluttered its leathery wings open loudly, roared, and jetted up into the sky. The others in his company followed suit, and the archers hustled to follow in the great beasts' shadows.

When he reached the proper altitude, Captain Hatir brought his wyvern to heel, having it float still in the air by flapping its wings slowly. Within a few moments, the Ylissean Pegasus Knights, who had been making rounds about the city, came face-to-face with the captain and his men: "That'll do, ladies! Stop right there!"

As captain, Phila halted her troops and drifted in front of them, "Who are you? On what grounds do you dare check the advance of the Ylissean Pegasus Knights?"

"On the grounds that you're addressing Captain Hatir of the Plegian Wyvern Knights, missy," he spat back, "and we've got some negotiations to make."

"I don't negotiate with demon-worshippers," Phila growled.

"Harsh words," cackled the opposing captain, "now here's some of mine: lay down your weapons or die."

"Hah!" Phila scoffed, "You know you're not mugging a handmaiden, right? My girls will turn you and your scalebags on your heads and make you beg for clemency."

"Don't be hasty, missy," touted Captain Hatir, gesturing toward the women screaming and crying as they dangled from the wyverns, "We've got some extra bargaining power to bring to the table."

Phila gasped and gritted her teeth, "You'd kidnap civilians...?"

Hatir cackled, "A little sacrifice for a very noble aim. Honestly, I'm saving them from a life of servitude and mediocrity. It's a blessing, in truth."

"You're a scoundrel of the highest order," Phila shot flatly.

"And you," her opponent pointed his index finger, "have a choice: surrender, or slaughter these innocent women."

"Forget them, Captain Phila," one pegasus knight argued, "They're just Plegians. The blood's on the hand of their bastard king if they die because of one of his officers."

Phila bowed her head, shutting her eyes, "As much as I would love to agree... I cannot. We are not them, we are Ylisseans, and that means we don't murder unarmed women, regardless of how convenient it might be to attaining our ends. Captain Hatir... we will comply."

"Very wise," the captain grinned lasciviously.

"Captain Phila—"

"Do as you're told, soldier. We'll play this dastard's game for now, and when it's over, we'll pay him back." The pegasus knights began to lower their weapons as the wyvern riders circled them.

"Ooh, I am positively rattled!" Hatir taunted, "But, of course, Captain Phila is correct: if we let them go, these Ylissean scum will only turn around and bite the hand that fed them."

"What are you—"

"So, I feel I have no choice when I say... 'Archers: execute them!'"

Phila's eyes broke wide open, "You bastard! Pegasus Knights—"

Before her first order, arrows surged into the sky, clipping the wings of several pegasi and sending them and their riders to the ground. "Flee!" Phila cried, "Retreat! Get out of here!"

More arrows whizzed by the disrupted Pegasus Knights, puncturing the bodies of riders as well as their steeds and dropping the ivory-armored troops to the hot Plegian sand. "Don't let them escape!" Hatir commanded as his men closed in on more of the pegasus knights and swatted them with broad axes. Phila tried to deliver more orders but quickly realized none of her soldiers were likely to hear her. She dodged arrows as best she could, then began to fly away as she saw Captain Hatir was making a run at her. She narrowly avoided to the swings of his axe, which sliced the air behind her, and lowered her altitude to avoid the archers and potentially lethal falls. She succeeded in one of the two, as an arrow ripped through her pegasus's wing, sending it neighing and careening to the ground. Apologizing and stroking the beast's neck as they neared the ground, Phila hopped off and skidded to a halt on her back, feeling an intense pain in her left arm as she rolled off into the sand.

And Argos and his team reached the base of the tower in time to see it all: the bloodied Pegasus Knights dropping like flies out of the sky, the horrified screams from Ylisseans accompanying the sight, and the cackling laughter of Captain Hatir and his wyvern riders as they swooped about the skies. Larissa shielded her eyes in Melody's bosom as the soldiers cascaded from the heavens like a genuine nightmare. The sight of the pegasi's fluffy, downy feathers floating down like bits of snow gave the whole scene an incredibly surreal feel. For a moment, Argos doubted his own eyes, but when sprays of blood dropped at a high velocity onto his cheek, he could doubt no longer. Of course, Ylissean archers mounted a counterattack, but the damage was done.

[...]

The sound of heavy thuds could be heard outside the walls of the castle. Ozzy listened to them intently, pondering their source, but the captain of the ambush troops made the announcement for him, "Those sounds... then Captain Hatir must have already begun. But where are the Ylisseans?" He directed one of his men to lift the trap door and search for the absentee raiders. When he found nothing, the captain commanded his men to the tower's roof in order to find out what was transpiring. The mages were all awestruck when they witnessed the onyx glittering backs of the wyverns who had felled an entire company of Ylissean Pegasus Knights.

"Ha," one shouted, "Look at that! Captain Hatir is incredible! Those Ylisseans don't stand a chance!"

"I guess we aren't needed, after all," decided another, "That's a relief..."

Ozzy had stopped dead. His eyes were frozen on one of the massive lizards knifing through the skies, flinging something along its back as it soared. He looked closer to confirm the fact and felt his body grow cold as his heart sank: a girl with mint-green hair was being flung about on a rope, dangling off the wyvern's tail. He pointed to the sight, attempting to make words, "Th-Tha... it... Ta... Ta..."

A few of his comrades looked askance at him, their commander included, "Oswald, the hell is wrong with you?"

The young man's eye twitched, "Tatiana... Tatiana's up there..."

"Who?" answered the commander.

"My sister!" the mage balled his fist, "That... That monster's kidnapped my sister!"

"Oh?" the commander shrugged, "Tough break."

"Tough break?!" Ozzy shouted, "You... everyone... they told me the Ylisseans had killed her! What happened to her?! Where has she been?!"

"Relax, Oswald," another mage said, "It's just a part of Captain Hatir's strategy. I'm sure she was in no danger."

"Relax?!" Ozzy cried, "NO DANGER?!" The periwinkle-haired mage gritted his teeth and growled furiously at the bunch, "No, to hell with this! I will not abide being lied to! I want my sister back!"

"Oswald, just shut up and settle dow—" a bolt of lightning smashed into the mage commander's face and sent him flipping off the tower.

"Traitor!" the other mages shouted, searching for their tomes.

"I'm a traitor?!" a wild-eyed Ozzy screamed, "Every one of you lied to me!" He flung a group of five mages off the roof with another bolt of thunder and then took off, sprinting back into the tower, his vision all running together into an incomprehensible stream.

A few hundred feet below, Argos's party spun around to see the enemy corpses raining out of the sky. "Damn," Melody shouted, "even more? It looked like they had totally wiped out the Pegasus Knights."

"Those aren't Pegasus Knights," Franco remarked, pointing to the hats spinning in the wind above them, "Take a gander."

"Mages," said Nicholas.

"And Plegian," Serena added.

"Seems there might be someone up there worth helping," Milan hinted none too subtly to his lord.

"I wonder," Renard murmured aloud.

Argos looked back at the thief, "Have you something to say?"

"Well..." he stammered, "There was a... a particularly naïve mage up there... he prattled some rubbish about his sister, but it was through him that I discovered the ambush?"

"You think they executed him?" supposed the lord.

"Possibly," Renard shrugged.

"Fine, you come with me, then," Argos commanded, "the rest of you, help the Ylissean army however you can. We can't afford to be culled by this setback."

"Sir," the troop saluted in unison and scattered to the edges of the city.

It was only seconds after entering the tower that Argos and Renard heard footsteps slamming down against the stone stairs, pounding a path downward. The lord and the thief scrambled up the staircase almost as quickly to make contact.

About halfway up the passage, the pair were halted before a young-looking mage with ridiculous curly periwinkle hair and a pair of soft ocean-blue eyes that were stained with the remnants of tears. His slightly tan cheeks were beet red, and the capillaries showed in the whites of his eyes. "You..." he remarked, spying the Ylissean lord first, "You're... you're the Ylissean prince, aren't you?"

"That's right," Argos shifted in place uneasily.

The man inhaled deeply, then sunk to his knees, "Just kill me now. I don't know how I could ever have been so _stupid_!"

"What's the matter, lad?" Renard inquired, "What have they done to you?"

He began severely, "None of your business, you..." After a pause, his tone softened, "You're Renard... right? The thief...? Why are you here with the Ylissean."

Renard swallowed and frowned, "I'm afraid... I lied. I am with the Ylisseans. I probed you for information about the ambush. I won't be offended if you despise me for it."

His head sunk, "You lied too... Oh, well. It doesn't sting anywhere near as bad as what those rotten 'comrades' of mine did."

"And what was that?" Renard pressed. Argos started tapping his finger on his folded elbow.

"My sister," he groaned, "she was never dead, they just kidnapped her for use in their diversion. She became a bargaining chip to them. And they'll probably do even worse if she lives."

"Blackguards!" Renard's eyes widened.

"In that case," Argos spoke up, "I won't waste my sword on you."

"What?" Ozzy lifted his head.

"The blood of the deceived is worthless. To die as a result of treachery is the highest injustice for any man," concluded the prince.

"You're calling me worthless?!" the mage sprang up, glaring at Argos.

"I'm saying you can sit here and kill yourself, or you can come with us and taste a little sweet vengeance. Maybe even save your dear sister. I don't care which, just pick one," said Argos.

"Ozzy, right?" Renard looked at him, "I made a promise to repay you one day, didn't I? Well, it came sooner than I thought, but here's your chance. If you side with us, I promise I'll help to get your sister back." The thief opened his spoils bag and withdrew the tome he had recovered earlier, "As a show of good faith, why don't you have this? I certainly can't make any use of it."

Ozzy took the tome and smiled just a bit, "Very well... I'll gut those curs!"

"There's a good lad," Renard smiled.

"Hop to it, then," Argos demanded, hearing other footsteps pouring down the hall, "We've got to make ourselves scarce." Needing no further prompting, the three galloped down the remaining flights of stairs and left the tower once more.

"So..." Ozzy breathed heavily, "What's the plan?"

"You might not like it," Renard looked at both the mage and the prince, "but I think our best bet is to bait them. Give them what they want."

"Are you saying what I believe you're saying, thief?" Argos cocked an eyebrow.

"We should lead them to you," he elaborated.

Argos's cheeks spread into a grin, "I like it. Just crazy enough to work."

"Ozzy," the thief said, "think you can shock one of those buzzards and bring them our way?"

"My pleasure," he confirmed, lifting his arm and opening the tome. With one quick chant, a concentrated column of lightning lanced through the sky, crackling loudly, and stabbed into the hide of a wyvern, causing it to plummet until its rider managed to whip the beast back into consciousness.

When the rider began to tear off in their direction, he shouted, "This way, boys! Prince Argos is right here!"

Swarms of wyverns began to close in on the trio. When one flew low right at them, leveling his axe, Renard winked and signaled toward the rider by extending his arm like a pike. As the wind formed a tunnel that slammed into the trio, Ozzy raised his hand again and blasted the beast with thunder. A wine-haired woman dangling from the beast's tail swung forward like a pendulum, and as the wyvern fell, Renard hopped up, seized the rope just above the woman, rapidly sliced clean through it with his knife, and spun around, clutching the prisoner tightly as he fell on his back and the wyvern smashed into the ground beyond them, ruining and uprooting the stone street. When it ground to a halt, Argos strolled onto the beast's back and stabbed the rider, tossing him off. "Do we have a plan?" Renard offered, standing and releasing the still-shaking woman.

"Am I supposed to catch you for each and every wyvern we drop?" Argos frowned.

"Unless there's a better solution..." the thief muttered, "Plus, time is a factor..." Several other wyverns screeched as they careened toward the trio.

As the group concentrated on the approaching horde of wyverns and weighing the merits of alternate plans, they were shocked to see another prisoner be enveloped in a strange bright green aura and then suddenly fade from sight, the rope that bound her slackening and flapping listlessly in the wind behind the wyvern. "Urgh, that's a pain," groaned a voice behind them. They looked back to see the orange-haired priest walking forward, waving his arm like he'd pulled a muscle. "Rescue staff," he showed it to their inquiring faces, "Makes it easier to get 'em down, but it's really tough if they're moving."

"We need to make them stay still?" Argos thought, grabbing at the reins of the fallen wyvern beside him, "That... seems like it can be arranged. Are you coming, kid? Seems like a long-range weapon would help a lot in this scenario."

"I get it," Ozzy nodded, "Yeah, right behind you, sir."

"Have you got more of those?" Renard pointed to Franco's staff.

"Plenty, all stored for the clergy among us," the priest nodded.

"I'll start distributing them," the thief nodded, "and directing people this way. Get those captives down as soon as the wyverns halt."

"Duh," Franco accepted, "Get a bunch, and don't take too long. The staves break pretty quick."

"Not to worry," the thief stretched his legs with a cocksure grin and sprinted toward the Ylissean lines.

The new plan came together quickly, and while things began slow, with Argos and Ozzy only able to seize one wyvern each and having Franco free the captives, they had to dodge retaliation for a bit until more healers showed up, but gradually nuns, priests, and troubadours, Melody and Larissa among them, flung themselves over the battle lines and approached the town's center to begin the mass rescue. When Ozzy came up against the rider who held his sister, he didn't hesitate to sear a hole directly in the man's chest, pausing, unlike with every other attack, to watch the man drop all the way to the ground in a bloody, pulpy burst. Only then did he continue on.

When the Plegian militants who remained began to see their comrades corpses dropping out of the sky, the effect was quite similar to the impact the devastation of the Pegasus Knights had on the Ylisseans: suddenly, the tide of battle swayed heavily in the favor of the Ylissean invaders, each of Argos's personal detail contributing serious damage to the enemy. Even young Frederick managed to kill of several enemy swordsmen, and the entire Plegian resistance was gradually trod beneath the boots of the advancing Ylisseans.

Up in the air, Argos finally set his sights upon one last wyvern, its face scarred by three large claw marks. The rope for holding a prisoner already lay empty, so there was no need to hold back. Atop this wyvern was a man with ornate onyx armor, hair the color of drying grass, and a smug smirk plastered on his face, "Come to face me on my terms, eh, prince? A very lamentable choice. No matter, you won't live to regret it long." Argos said nothing, watching the enemy as his wyvern dove straight at his. As the creature approached, Argos dipped his feet over the side of his own stolen mount, waited, and leapt off the beast, seizing the lance wielded by Captain Hatir. Shocked, the captain was dragged down, but slipped his leg through the stirrup on his right-hand side to catch himself, hooking the leg to hold on. He thought to release the lance, but Argos anticipated the move and seized his neck, followed by one side of the wyvern's reins to stabilized himself.

"You are one dumb sod, you know that?" Argos jeered. He kicked his way over the struggling captain and sat comfortably on the saddle of the wyvern, then drew his sword and sliced off the leg holding up Captain Hatir, who screeched violently as he fell, until the ground finally silenced him. When all was done, despite a bit of fighting, Argos managed to coerce the large, angry wyvern to lower him down, got off, and threw the reins and saddle off the beast. Somewhat obligingly, it immediately took to the air and soared away. The prince encouraged some suddenly appearing platoons to do the same to the other landed wyverns.

Slowly, Ylissean forces crowded the center of the city, cheering the prince's name as they neared the tower. They cheered even louder as they saw the corpse of Captain Hatir messily splattered on the ground. Ozzy, too, cheered as he went to greet his beloved sister, wrapping her in a tight embrace and burying his face into her mint-colored locks. Phila, still bleeding a bit and limping, did not cheer as she finally rejoined her comrades.

Prince Argos had struck his first major military victory.


End file.
